


Transformers:  Last Generation

by Insecticon



Category: Transformers, Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers - IDW, Transformers Animated (2007), Transformers Generation One, Transformers: Prime, Transformers: The Headmasters
Genre: Alternate TF:Prime Ending, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Future, Fluff, Gen, Giant Robot-Based Violence, IDW - Prime Plot Fusion, Multiple Pov, No Profanity, No Sex, OCs That Are Hopefully Not Special Snowflakes, Other, Possible Spoilers If You Haven't Read Much MTMTE, Should Be Worksafe, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-02 05:21:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insecticon/pseuds/Insecticon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Autobot-Decepticon war has finally ended, and Cybertron has sprung back to life amid the tentative peace. When a Decepticon war criminal held captive aboard an Autobot shuttle escapes to the forbidden planet Earth, the crew escorting him must make a mad rush to recapture their prisoner before they are discovered by a surprisingly hostile humanity. Being robots in disguise isn't as easy as it used to be, now that a technologically advanced human civilization is struggling with mass uprisings of its own robotic creations. Full-on planetary revolution may be just one Decepticon away...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cabin Fever

Bumblebee put his feet up on the command console and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head. It was going to be a long flight back to Cybertron, and there was nothing to do but sit and watch the star field in front of him. Countless suns and planetary systems in all their glory were reduced to fragmentary flickers that stretched into streaks of multicolored light towards the edges of the viewscreen as the shuttle shot on through the endless emptiness in front of them.

It was boring as scrap, and his co-pilot wasn't going to make things livelier any time soon.

“You haven't added an entry to the ship's travel log in ten cycles,” Ultra Magnus chided. The Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest accord was busily working the data pad in his hands, grimfacedly proofreading Whirl's latest “report” with the same sort of steely determination one would usually reserve for facing down a legion of Decepticon Elites unarmed. The red correction marks littering the datapad's viewing surface made it look as if it had just barely survived such an onslaught, and Magnus' stylus was still hard at work only halfway down the page.

Bumblebee sat up, placing his feet back on the floor, and pulled out the manual input terminal. Bringing up his last file, he selected the text, copied it into a new report, and hit the enter key.

Magnus' datapad beeped as the filed log was received.

“I'm sensing a lack of enthusiasm for diligent record-keeping,” Magnus deadpanned.

“There are only so many ways you can say “We flew through space. Nothing happened.”,” Bumblebee coolly replied. “Consider it an exercise in efficiency.”

Magnus grunted noncommittally, focusing back on Whirl's entry, his mouth pulling into a bigger scowl than usual.

“Something wrong?” Bumblebee asked, noticing the change of demeanor, leaning over the armrest of his chair to peek at the sea of red digital ink.

“He can't spell “accommodations”, but he _can_ arrange his report to form an acrostic,” Magnus grumbled.

“A _what_?” Bumblebee asked, leaning over further to try to get a view of what blue and white carrier-form was seeing.

“Look at the first letter of each sentence of his report,” the Enforcer said, holding the datapad up for Bumblebee view clearly.

The yellow and black scout narrowed his optics and began reading aloud. “Ultra Magnus is a giant --”

“That kind of disrespect could be considered insubordination!” the Enforcer complained loudly. “Order needs to be maintained, even on a mission where everything _seems_ cut and dry. The mission has gone without incident _so far_ , but that is no excuse to slack off. Until our cargo is safely unloaded on Cybertron, we need to remain focused, vigilant and ready for anything!”

“We've been vigilant for the last four months,” Bumblebee countered tiredly. “Whirl's probably just feeling a little stir-crazy.” He paused for a moment before correcting himself. “Stir-crazi _er_. Anyways, I'll go tell him to stay on his side of the car and stop touching you.”

Ultra Magnus looked mildly puzzled. “I don't follow, Sir. We're in a ship, not a car, and the infraction Whirl is guilty of has nothing to do with physical contact--”

Bumblebee exhaled through his ventilation systems in exasperation. “It's a human expression, Magnus. Nevermind -- just make sure we don't fly into anything. I'll go talk to Whirl,” he said, rising quickly from his seat, turning towards the bulkhead doors in the back.

“The ship is on autopilot, sir,” Magnus stated flatly.

“But the autopilot could fail!” Bumblebee interjected with forced cheer, not stopping for arguments on his way to the door. “Gotta remain diligent and vigilant right? Let me know how it all turns out later.” Irritation crept into the edges of his voice as the doors slid open in front of him, his feet striking harder against the floor, pace picking up on his way into the hall. He didn't bother to look back or care to listen to anything further Ultra Magnus might have been trying to say as the bulkhead doors shuttered behind him.

 

Diligence and vigilance. There wasn't anything left to be diligent or vigilant **for**.

 

* * * * *

Time seemed to pass more slowly now that the war was over. Ultimately the Autobots had won, and the Decepticon army was dealt its death-blow when Megatron refused to keep up the fight. Cybertron had been restored, and for the first time in millions of years, new sparks were being rediscovered all over the planet's surface.

The peace was tenuous but maintained as neutral Cybertronians and old Autobot allies finally started to arrive back home. The planet was a shambles, but they were making due in the remnants of Iacon. The new generation of Cybertronians were quick learners and eager to lend a hand in making Cybertron's future bright. There was the occasional scuffle but nothing serious, which was surprising, all things considered. After all, the remains of the Decepticon army were there with the rest of them, and there was plenty of bad blood to go around.

Maybe it was just seeing Cybertron alive again, habitable, refreshing itself more with every megacycle, that calmed most of the Decepticons down. Energon was plentiful again. Blurr had gotten that bar of his started in Iacon, just like he'd always wanted. Jazz and Blaster were returning to their old civilian lives almost as if the war had never happened. Former friends and sparkbrothers were reconnecting, and trying their hardest to let go of the past, remembering that this is what Optimus Prime would have wanted. 

Megatron had said his peace, transformed, and left the planet for parts unknown; some wanted him to come back, to face justice, to pay for the countless lives he took with his war.

The decision rested on the shoulders of the new leader of the Autobots.

Bumblebee made the call to let him go.

 _“It's what Optimus would have wanted,” Arcee said aloud, hand on Bumblebee's shoulder as they faced the angry mass of returning exiles. “Revenge breeds more revenge. I know it's going to be hard, but we have to let it all go, here and_ now. _Believe me, I have every reason to want to hunt down any Decepticons who haven't surrendered and turned in their badges, but if they aren't actively hostile, we should_ _ **just let them go**_ _. The war's_ _ **over**_ _. Let's not start a new one.”_

Bumblebee had wished he'd been able to speak like Arcee had. He felt useless. What had Prime seen in him when he handed the mantle of leadership over to the young bot? Bee didn't even have the benefit of the Matrix of Leadership to help guide his decisions and give him direction when he needed it. Optimus had said the age of Primes was over before sacrificing himself to restart the Well of Allsparks, and left Bumblebee to try to build a working civilization out of Cybertron's remains.

He was just a scout, a last generation Autobot, and nothing about the war that had consumed his whole existence since the time he was sparked had prepared him for the burden of peace.

It was no great shock to anyone, then, when Bumblebee had assigned himself first to the mission at hand: Sixshot, one of the infamous Phase Six Deception elites, had been taken offguard by distant Wrecker platoon and captured. All that was left was to bring him back to Cybertron, disarmed and ready to stand trial.

The threat of something going terribly wrong hung over the mission manifesto like a black fog. Ultra Magnus' experience with Phase Sixers and his willingness to protect the new Autobot supreme commander made him an outstanding choice. Whirl wouldn't be turned away from the mission (no matter how many times he'd been ordered to go home), and with Whirl aboard, Cyclonus volunteered to keep an eye on him. Tailgate came with Cyclonus like a packaged set, and soon after First Aid signed on. “Whirl, Ultra Magnus and Cyclonus on the same ship requires medical support,” he'd said. No one had argued with him. Bumblebee wouldn't allow any more after that; after all, something _disastrous_ could happen. He'd even met secretly with Prowl to discuss who would take up leadership should he and his crew fail to return.

 

After four months, nothing had happened.

 

The mission was becoming necrotic with routine; twelve cycles awake, twelve cycles recharge, rotating shifts, maintenance checks, and of _course_ the mission logs. Primus **forbid** anyone forget the mission logs - at least Ultra Magnus seemed to be enjoying the orderly monotony (as far as anyone could tell). First Aid was taking more time to catch up on the medical journals Ratchet had sent with him; Cyclonus and Tailgate had retreated to their shared quarters more and more, keeping out of the way of the others to focus on Tailgate's combat training. Apart from the intermittent guttural roaring of what sounded like a dying ik-yak coming from inside their room (Cyclonus protested that the old ballads _had_ to be sung in the Primal vernacular), Bee had forgotten at times that they were even on board.

Even Whirl's needling of the other crew members could be marked on the calendar; the former Wrecker had never been one to sit still and not be destructive for more than a few hours; at first he'd tried overt attempts to instigate “friendly brawls” but after no one was foolish enough to take him up on his offers, he'd begun intricate and subtle schemes to irritate the more stoic members of the crew, hoping to goad them into an angry outburst at the least. Bumblebee judged today's report to be right on schedule.

All that routine had left Bumblebee plenty of time to think about the things he'd left Cybertron in hopes of not thinking about.

This left Bumblebee very _unhappy_.

“Must be Fifthday,” he muttered, making his way down the main corridor of the ship, past the medical bay and mess hall and towards the crew quarters and cargo bay. “Whirl's always pulling something on Fifthday.”

 _“_ _**Oh the glory of the dawn shall be remembered, as the thunder of the canyons fill the air--!** _ _!”_

Bumblebee covered his audioceptors with his hands and hurried past the crew quarters. Cyclonus and Tailgate in a duet wasn't doing anything to help his mood.

 * * * * *

“You finally remembered the third stanza. Good. You're making progress,” Cyclonus praised, standing across from Tailgate, idly polishing the enormous Great Sword in his hands.

Tailgate sat up in his chair, hands pressed to the surface of the table in front of him. Despite the lack of several major facial features, he always managed to convey his emotions expressively. “Does this mean I can sing it with you at the dedication ceremony when we get back?” he questioned eagerly.

“No. Your inflection is still lacking,” Cyclonus flatly replied.

Tailgate slumped back down into his seat, happiness levels reduced by _half_ at the very least. “Bother,” he murmured, glancing down at the floor.

He resolved to keep trying. Cyclonus was a hard mech to please; he demanded nothing short of perfection and he rarely let anyone keep company with him for more than a couple of hours. Even then, when engaged in conversation, his answers were always masterfully laconic. He kept to himself and let no one in. Even after he and Tailgate had been assigned rather haphazardly to shared quarters aboard the Lost Light, Cyclonus had managed to keep the little white and blue mech a million miles away while recharging a few feet nearby.

Adventures had changed that. Swerve would call them “quests” (he called everything a quest, that made it sound more dramatic and interesting), and some of them had definitely been worthy of the Knights of Cybertron's legends. Tailgate had almost died, unmissed, unmourned, and unknown, after only a short time being activate once more. He'd done nothing of any value during his proper lifetime six million years ago; when he'd fallen through the cracks of the Mitteous Plateau, no one had gone looking for him. It was only through fate that he'd come around in time to come aboard the Lost Light.

Cyclonus had been, ultimately, the only one who had noticed him. The only one that had noticed that his inner energon had curdled. The only one that had seen through his faked persona of the courageous Primal Vanguard bomb disposal unit. The only one that had cared enough to try to shield Tailgate from false hope while ignoring his own advice and fighting for the minibot's life.

Even if he wouldn't say it directly, Cyclonus needed a friend. Tailgate had resolved to be just that, no matter what. The ancient warrior had saved Tailgate's life.

The two had become inseparable since then. Cyclonus, with feigned reticence, took Tailgate on as his apprentice, teaching him the old ways the minibot had missed as a waste disposal maintenance mech, and teaching him how to fight. On the Lost Light, Tailgate had shown a flash of boundless courage and had saved more lives than could be counted. Cyclonus saw that Tailgate had great potential, if only it could be harnessed.

“I don't have lips,” Tailgate added after a moment, louder, looking back up. “How am I supposed to sing “The Dirge of the Dawn” with a Tetrahexian inflection if I don't have any _lips_?”

Cyclonus looked up from his attentive examination of the Great Sword's blade, fixing an unflinching stare at Tailgate's oversized optic plate.

“You'll just have to figure it out, won't you? Once more, Tailgate. This time, with _feeling._ ” He returned to his previous task, awaiting his student's response without looking back up.

“Bother,” Tailgate murmured again, taking in a vent of fresh air as he prepared to sing.

* * * * * 

Despite the impressive limiters and forcefields surrounding him, there was nothing about Sixshot that looked restrained. As tall as Ultra Magnus, if not taller, the multichanger turned Phase Sixer was an imposing figure in any room; his presence alone seemed to crush the courage out of all but the most stalwart of souls. His capabilities as a one mech planetary genocide device didn't hurt either.

The giddy anticipation of ridding the universe of one of the most dangerous Cybertronians in recent history was slowly giving way to a dull stomachache of psychological exhaustion. The ponderous weight of Sixshot's presence had created a low-level anxiety that oozed its way past cargo hold doors and out into the rest of the ship, lingering just out of the conscious perception of its crew. They were all subconsciously waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for hours, days, weeks, months, pressing onwards with their mission, carrying on with day to day life while their nerves were slowly fraying apart, threatening to snap well before any of Sixshot's bonds did.

No one felt this more keenly than Whirl. _He_ was aware of it even if no one else was, and he had made up his mind to do something about it; the obvious solution was just to go ahead and get the inevitable out of the way: there was going to be a battle, people were going to die (probably all of them, really) and either Sixshot was going to end up dead, or they were. How was it that he could see things more clearly with one optic than anyone else on this ship could with their fancy-schmancy two? And while he was thinking about it, did Tailgate have one giant mutant optic with two lenses or two optics behind one big plate? He had wanted to try to peel it off of Tailgate and find out, but Cyclonus would probably get his hip armor in a twist about it and then their carefully cultivated friendship would be _ruined_. Whirl didn't want that. Who _else_ was he gonna color co-ordinate in battle with? First Aid was too red and Bumblebee had smoked Megatron, so that earned him a pass no matter how much of a gearstick he'd been lately.

That only left Ultra Magnus. Whirl was fairly certain that under that law-abiding upstanding straight-laced lack of smile, Magnus had some kind of deep, dark, hidden neurosis just _waiting_ to come out and play. He couldn't just come out and stab Magnus in the back to get him to open up; no, Magnus commanded more respect from Whirl than that (not to mention that Magnus was probably one of the few guys that could punch his head through the floor). The Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord required special finesse, such as intentionally misspelled duty reports and specially encoded phrases that could be taken as intentional insults or pure random chance. Whirl was expecting him to crash through those doors any second now, datapad held up in one hand, flecks of glossal lubricant spraying from his rage-curled lips, bellowing threats of worse-than-death in his direction. For just a moment, Whirl longed for his original head, just so he could stare back into Magnus' optics and _grin._

Noise from somewhere else in the ship caught his attention, and his body tensed like a cat ready to spring. He _swore_ he could hear the thud of hurried bootsteps outside the door: Ultra Magnus would be coming in to tear him a new tailpipe any second now.

Aaaaany second now.

“WHIRL.”

This was it! This was the moment he had been waiting for! This was –!

Bumblebee tossed the data pad across the room. It landed a few feet shy of Whirl and skidded to a stop in front of his taloned feet, spinning slowly. “I know what you're trying to do, and it's not helping anyone, so quit trying to make Ultra Magnus blow a tire,” the yellow and black Autobot commanded in exasperation. His transformation plates were partially raised and his engine was idling high. The servos of his right hand kept clenching and unclenching.

Okay, so it wasn't Ultra Magnus, but it would do. For now.

“What, file my reports on time?” Whirl asked nonchalantly, reaching down and scooping the data pad into his claws in a clumsy but functional hold. “Wow, did he spill a can of hydraulic fluid on this or something? It's full of red. Oh, wait, look: the first letters of every sentence spell out --”

“I _know_ what it spells out Whirl,” Bumblebee chastised, folding his arms across his chest.

Whirl tilted the box shape of his head to one side and drew a claw to his chest in mock-offense. “And you think I did this on _purpose_? Didn't you get the same sensitivity training as Prime did? You think my spelling's going to improve with _these_?” he asked, pulling the claw away from his chest and waving it back and forth in Bumblebee's general direction.

“The datapad takes dictation,” Bumblebee stated.

“So it does,” Whirl agreed, poking at the screen with a claw.

Bumblebee relaxed his plates and posture and tried to reason with Whirl. “Look, I get that this mission isn't turning out to be as suicidally action packed, filled with explosions and Wrecker-y as you might have wanted--”

“Ex-Wrecker,” Whirl corrected firmly, interrupting.

“Pre-Wrecker, Post-Wrecker, it doesn't really make a difference to me--” Bumblebee said, pressing on to try to get to his point.

Whirl interrupted again, picking at the screen in front of him distractedly. “It should. Details like that are important. You shouldn't skip over the details.”

Bee's patience was thinning as he went from one chastisement to another, and all from bots who were supposed to be taking orders, not giving them. He wasn't normally bothered by these infractions of protocol – he'd developed a reputation as a pretty easygoing mech – but Whirl's repeated attempts to provoke the other crew members had become like water torture.

Drip. Curdled energon slipped into everyone's rations.

Drip. Taking pot shots at Cyclonus “accidentally”.

Drip. Stashing First Aid's fluid samples in random places all over the ship.

Still, it had been _his_ choice to let Whirl on board, and he reminded himself to live with the consequences of his actions: It's what Optimus Prime would have done. 

“Neither should you,” Bee finally replied. “So knock it off. You pull one more stunt like this and you'll be joining Sixshot in chains and forcefield until we get to Cybertron. _Understood_?”

Whirl kept playing with the text on the datapad screen, refusing to make eye contact. “Sure thing, boss,” he shrugged dismissively.

Bumblebee's optics irised down to pinholes, mouth pulled into a tight line, as he turned on his heels and thundered out of the room.

 

* * * * * 

The entry request chime went off at Cyclonus and Tailgate's quarters. Tailgate paused his singing mid-verse (coughing to reset his stressed vocoder) and the taller bot activated the door.

Bumblebee glanced between the two, staring at Tailgate, who was still choking, rubbing his neck. “... Did I come at a bad time or something? 

“Don't have lips,” Tailgate wheezed. “Can't--”

“No,” Cyclonus interrupted. “Come in, Commander.”

Bumblebee looked between the two for a few seconds, then shook his head. “I don't wanna know,” he muttered, stepping into the habitation dome. “Cyclonus, can I ask a favor of you?”

“Or you can give me an order. Either is sufficient,” Cyclonus stated. “What is on your mind?”

“It's Whirl,” Bee quickly said, his frustration spilling out as fast as his words, “He just won't stop being – being – _Whirl._ It's like the guy can't stop being a dipstick for even five microcycles, and the last thing I need is for a fight to break out when we're carrying a pit-cursed _Decepticon Elite_ onboard.” The scout started pacing back and forth, gesticulating with his hands as he went on. “I'm afraid that if one of us doesn't snap, Whirl's going to do something really stupid, like try to provoke Sixshot. Even letting him take potshots at asteroids we pass by isn't helping anymore.” He stopped and looked up at Cyclonus, optics pleading for help. “How in the _scrap_ did Rodimus keep him under control?!”

“Creative delegation of responsibility combined with a frequent need for his violent, chaotic tendencies,” Cyclonus calmly answered. “The latter was due more random acts of fate.”

“Also he kind of ignored him, since there were a lot more of us on the Lost Light than on this shuttle,” Tailgate helpfully pointed out.

“Yes, that too,” Cyclonus grimaced.

Bee vented, trying to cobble together inner peace from the remains of his shattered mood. “Great,” he grumbled. “I caged us up with a big bag of crazy.”

“I suggest you take advantage of your newfound rank and assign one of us to protect Whirl from both himself and the rest of the crew,” Cyclonus stated. “Barring that, have First Aid induce a stasis lock until he is otherwise needed. Which, with good fortune, will be never again.”

“He's my responsibility. I shouldn't just pass him off to torment one of you,” Bee said, shaking his head negatively. “Optimus was able to earn his respect. I need to figure out how to do that, too.”

“I would consider earning his respect to be a waste of time, but your intentions are admirable,” Cyclonus replied. “Nevertheless, Optimus Prime was gifted with assistance above and beyond what is currently available to you. You will not be able to walk in his footsteps. They were much bigger than yours." 

Bee frowned. “You think I can't handle the job?” he questioned defensively.

Cyclonus remained unmoved. “You are not suited to living in Prime's shadow.”

The words pierced Bee's spark like a plasma bullet. He looked past Cyclonus and Tailgate to the starfield displayed in the transparisteel window behind them. That had been what he'd been running from when he took this mission. Being forced to live in the shadow of Optimus Prime.

Cyclonus saw through the storm of worry clouding the scout's eyes. “There's always prayer,” he added in a gentler tone after giving Bee time to think.

Bumblebee's face screwed up in a twist of disdain and restrained mirth. “To which gods? At this rate maybe I ought to try all of them.”

“Well there's always that First Aid thing. Or we could just wait until Whirl's recharging and throw him out an airlock,” Tailgate cheerfully suggested.

The scout laughed, ill mood draining out of his spark at last. “Okay, okay, we'll try to save that as a last resort, Tailgate,” Bee smiled. “But seriously, if he tries one more piece of scrap like he's been doing for the past two weeks, I'm gonna take your advice, Cyclonus-- ”

The ship's alarms all went off at once.


	2. Deja Vu

“Scrap! I just told Whirl to knock this stuff off!” Bumblebee snarled as he ran down the hallway to the cargo bay. The light fixtures above brightened in intensity, giving perfect clarity to every detail in the ship, eradicating shadows in which danger might be able to hide. The warning klaxon continued to howl in what felt like perfect syncopation to the sound of his footsteps. Bee did not wait to see who else was coming with him as he tore away from the open door to Cyclonus and Tailgate's quarters – the only thing that mattered was the anger boiling the energon in his lines and the fear digging into the back of his brain module.

“What's going on?!” Tailgate asked in a panic, leaping from his chair. Cyclonus turned to the open doorway, taking up the great sword in his right hand.

“Stay here,” the horned warrior brusquely ordered, backing up his authority with a quick, sharp glance at his smaller companion.

“I'm coming with you!” Tailgate protested, the lenses of his optic plating tilting inward into the center, giving the impression of a frown. He would not back down; his posture stiffened and his transformation plates locked down in defiant resolve.

Cyclonus would have none of it. “ _You are staying_ ,” he repeated in a harsh hiss as he quickly darted through the open archway, slamming his fist against the key panel; the controls shattered and sizzled, locking mechanisms automatically engaged. He did not wait to listen to Tailgate's muffled cries or the dull sound of tiny hands banging against the blast-shielded doors.

* * * * *

“hi * _zzt_ * guys. Sixshot wanted to -* _khhhckt_ *- come out and play.”

Bumblebee crouched into a ready position just inside the cargo bay doors, his right hand shifting into a standard blaster. It wasn't going to be much good against the sort of armor he'd heard Sixshot was equipped with, but he figured that if Optimus Prime had been able to trade punches with the multichanger and come out on top, maybe he might stand a chance.

Or he could die a horrible, agonizing, slow death.

At least the waiting was over.

One half of Whirl's body clattered to the floor to the left of the doorway, hitting the solid base paneling with the noise of a dozen dropped iron pipes. The other half landed in front of Bumblebee and Cyclonus with a much heavier, scraping thud.

“so I said, 'you wanna piece of me', and he goes 'no, I want two'. I think he saw that movie too,” Whirl managed to quip, vocoder garbled, damage obvious from the fingerprints dented into his narrow neck, pushing himself up with his arms.

“Nuts and bolts what did you DO Whirl?!” Bumblebee incredulously demanded, staring down at the still mobile section of ex-Wrecker in front of him.

“oh sure, blame it all on me,” Whirl weakly retorted.

Cyclonus came to a quick stop just behind Bumblebee, eyes fixed on the towering Decepticon in the center of the cargo bay after a quick sweep of his surroundings.

“Suggestions?” Bee asked quickly.

Cyclonus' optics narrowed. “Dump the cargo hold.”

“What?! But Whirl's still in--”

“ **Dump it** ,” Cyclonus insisted over his commander's disbelieving protests. “We've done this before. Dump the hold and detonate it. We can save the rest of the crew, and you'll be giving Whirl what he's wanted all along.”

Sixshot's low, icy chuckle rumbled beneath the continued alarm. The massive aqua, violet and white multichanger folded his arms, his expression hidden beneath his faceplate. “Callous, but effective. I like this one – a warrior does what is necessary to win.” Spreading his hands, Sixshot canted his head downward and took one step forward, crimson visor brightening as his systems charged up in anticipation of battle. “If _this_ ,” he said, glancing at Whirl's energon-soaked upper half before returning his gaze to Bumblebee, “is the best fighter you have to offer, I would suggest you take your elder's advice, _protoform_. I'll even give you the opportunity to carry out your plan with no interference.”

Bee's face pulled into a scowl. It wasn't a decision he wanted to make. Much as Whirl could be a pain in the tailpipe, he was still one of them. He opened his mouth in preparation to answer, but the sound of other bots gathering behind him took the order off his glossa.

Ultra Magnus charged past Bumblebee and Cyclonus, leaping over them, over Whirl, fist swinging for Sixshot's head. “First Aid! Get Whirl to safety!”

“I'm on it!” the medic shouted from behind, Bee and Cyclonus parting like the Red Sea to let First Aid get to Whirl. Sixshot's head snapped to the right from the force of Magnus' blow.

Cyclonus cursed under his breath, running forward to assist Ultra Magnus, buying time for First Aid's rescue attempt. Gripping the hilt of his blade in both hands, he pulled it back and to his right side.. The crystalline fixture near the hilt of the sword began to glow.

“So much for _that_ plan,” the yellow and black scout muttered, dropping down to help First Aid, who was pulling Whirl's body into the hallway.

“ha...!” Whirl rasped. “ … knew you'd do the... the moral option.” The light of his optic was beginning to dim.

“Help me get him to the medical bay or we're going to lose him!” First Aid shouted, trying to be heard over the sound of metal smashing into metal behind him. Bumblebee draped Whirl's arm over his shoulder; the ex-Wrecker was still taller than both of them even when bisected at the waist. They worked in tandem, trying to hurry down the hallway, half running, half dragging, fighting against time to save their comrade. Bumblebee's thoughts kept racing back to the sound of battle behind him – he had to be there, they needed him. There wouldn't be any reason to save Whirl's life just to have all of them die shortly after at Sixshot's hands.

The two slid Whirl onto the medical slab and First Aid went to work attaching a nucleon feed, grabbing up clamps and tools to staunch the leaking and stabilize the dying rotorcraft. Bee fidgeted across the slab from First Aid, looking to the doorway, then back to the medical officer, pacing and bouncing on his toes like a frantic dog pulling at his chain.

“Hold this.” First Aid extended a clamped energon line towards the other Autobot, not looking up, focused intently on the patient beneath him. Bee took the line and frowned at it. He wanted to be released from nurse duty, immediately, he was the commander and it was his job to get back into the fight. Millions of years of being a scout and facing combat head on left him with a Pavlovian impulse to draw weapons and charge at the sound of clashing fists and guns.

Anxiety was getting to him. “I gotta get out there!” he protested, taking another tool and damaged component handed to him.

“I only need you a nanocycle longer,” First Aid calmly replied, drowning out the noise and chaos around him with the task at hand.  
  
“We may not have that long!” Bee shouted.

“Where's Tailgate?” First Aid calmly rebuffed, refocusing Bumblebee's attentions away from the battle.

“What?”  
  
“Tailgate. Cyclonus and Ultra Magnus went to stop Sixshot but Tailgate's missing,” First Aid answered, arms deep in Whirl's torso, forearms glossy with mechanical gore. “I've tried to contact him on his personal frequency and I'm not getting anything.”

Bee's lenses irised open and his fidgeting stopped. It wasn't instantly clear to him what that meant, but he was certain it wasn't good.

* * * * *

Tailgate could hear the sounds of fighting and shouting through the thick alloy of the locked blast doors. He cursed and slammed his fist into the bulkhead once more. He knew what had just happened. He knew why Cyclonus had locked him inside.

“No!” he shouted, shaking his head to refuse the fate that was being handed down to him. “No, you saved my life, you are _not_ going to die before I get a chance to return the favor!” His eyes darted around the room, looking for something, anything to get that door open, and then remembrance struck him: He'd dealt with this before. He thought that his time as a waste disposal unit, fourth class, was, well, a _waste_. Suddenly that time being a nobody was about to pay off.

Dragging his chair over to the wall he jumped up on it, and pulled the inside panel of the door control off. He'd been in places where the doors stuck, leaving him trapped in tunnels miles below the surface. A will to survive had taught him how to make good on his escape.

Small fingers pulled and twisted wires, overloading the computerized locking mechanism; it was a fail-safe in case of disaster, in case someone were to become stuck inside. Or get locked inside by a well-meaning but grouchy bot who seemed pit-bent on winning first place for “most noble death in the face of unwinnable odds”.

Tailgate shook his burnt servo-tips as the controls popped with a spark and a curl of acrid smoke. The doors hesitantly slid open, sticking halfway as the signal from the control panel stopped. The minibot jumped off the chair and forced himself through the egress, leaving a long gray stripe across his chest of scratch-marks and missing paint.

* * * * *

Sixshot took another step backwards as Ultra Magnus continued to batter the sixchanger's body with powerful blows.

Seconds stretched on into the infinite; the three combatants were locked into the eternity of Now, their perceptions chained to the clash of weapons and wills. The plan was simple: force the Elite into the back of the cargo hold so he could be jettisoned into space. The ship's defenses could take it from there. It had worked with one Phase Sixer in the past.

Ultra Magnus was beginning to feel himself tire. He was taking more damage than he was giving. Cyclonus wasn't in much better shape.

Sixshot easily sidestepped a right hook from Magnus, grabbing hold of the carrier-form's extended arm and pulling him into a forward throw, using Magnus' own inertia against him. Ultra Magnus slammed into the back wall of the ship, the thick alloy of the inner hull crushing the structures of his back in resistance to the blow. His shoulder servos locked up, dented actuators malfunctioning. He could do nothing but watch Sixshot transform into beast mode and round on him, fangs bared.

Cyclonus, left arm attached to his body by a few stubbornly strong bits of wire, lashed out at Sixshot with the great sword; the massive blade knocked the sixchanger off all four of his feet and away from Magnus, but it did little more than leave a light cut across Sixshot's shoulder. The wolf-form dug his claws into the floor, preventing himself from being flipped onto his back, leaving grooves and the scream of metal against metal.

Willpower and redirection to back up systems got Ultra Magnus away from the wall. He lurched forward and groped on hands and knees to stand. He didn't dare open fire with his ranged weaponry. It could puncture the ship and suck out the stabilizing atmosphere, risking the explosive decompression of damaged and exposed internal mechanisms.

Cyclonus held his sword forward, moving sideways towards Ultra Magnus, readying himself for the next attack. “Options?” he asked the other bot in a voice just above a whisper.

Magnus grunted, his rotators grinding against each other, forced to move back and forth until caught and bent mechanisms ground free, shearing off blockages. “We keep him here and keep buying time. It's up to Bumblebee, First Aid or Tailgate now.” The requirement of their sacrifice in the process went unspoken and agreed upon.

“Tailgate is not an option,” Cyclonus said, eyes never leaving the sixchanger, who had steadied himself and transformed back into robot mode, getting to his feet and stalking ever closer.

Ultra Magnus scowled. “You can't keep protecting him--!”

“I locked him into our quarters,” Cyclonus interjected.

“Ultra Magnus,” Sixshot addressed, almost on top of the two wounded Autobots. “I've been waiting a long time for this challenge. What a pity you don't live up to your reputation. I wanted a little excitement before I die.”

“It's not over yet, Decepticon,” Ultra Magnus spat, balling his functioning hand into a fist.  
  
Cyclonus did not wait for Sixshot to strike them down. He lunged forward, aiming low, hoping to take the elite off his feet and get a clear strike as his torso. Following Cyclonus' lead, Magnus sprang forward to attempt to tackle the tall Decepticon's upper body and bring him to the floor. The restraints that had held him just a short time before – they were so close, just barely out of reach!

Sixshot's left leg snapped forward from the hip, turning into a circular kick, using the flat of his shin to slam into Ultra Magnus' upper arm, crumpling a wide dent into the rectangular white block of limb, the damage not unlike a broken bone. Carried forward and upwards, using Ultra Magnus' body as a push-off point, Sixshot's foot left the floor, the great sword scraping against the bottom of his boot. Almost fully turned in mid-air, with Ultra Magnus falling beneath him, the Elite's right leg competed the spinning jump, bringing his knee into the back of Cyclonus' head. Both Autobots slammed hard into the floor, shaking the ship with the force of the impact. The great sword fell from Cyclonus' hands, skittering across the floor.

“I think it is,” Sixshot coolly replied, stamping his foot into the middle of Cyclonus' back, pinning him, as the sixchanger reached down to grab hold of Ultra Magnus by the back of the neck.

  
A single weak plasma beam lanced through the air and caught Sixshot across his faceplate.

  
The brilliant crimson optics of the Elite snapped towards the source of the weaponfire: A small white and blue minibot holding an equally small hand blaster in both servos.

“The next one will be for the eyes,” Tailgate growled. “Put them both down and back away. **Now**. Or we'll see how good you are fighting _blind_.”

The Phase Sixer began to chuckle.

Tailgate's optics turned upwards in confusion. “Hey! You're not supposed to be – why are you laughing?! Stop that!” he demanded, shaking the gun in his hands to emphasize his Very Serious Threat Of Harm. “I will shoot you until it counts! I mean it!!”

Cyclonus felt his spark clench in dread. “Tailgate, get out of here!” he hoarsely barked, his voice wavering in fear.

This did not go unnoticed by Sixshot, a wicked flash of light momentarily brightening his visor. “Oh I _see_ ,” he purred. “This one means something to the cold-hearted warrior, does he?”

“He means nothing!” Cyclonus snarled venomously, knowing he had already tipped his hand.

“Let's find out.”

Sixshot raised Ultra Magnus over his head, and thrust him down hard towards Cyclonus, stepping back to beat one bot with the body of another. “NO!” Tailgate screamed, panicking, opening fire with clumsy aim from trembling hands, the beam missing Sixshot's shoulder and leaving a char mark on the wall behind. The sixchanger lept over the tangled bodies in front of him, walking through Tailgate's continued erratic weaponfire and screams of angry defiance until he loomed, pockmarked with black spots of burnt mesh, over the trembling minibot. Tailgate's legs refused to move. He was trapped, optics opened wide, faceplate hanging low like a mouth agape.

The Elite snatched up Tailgate, closing his hand around the entirety of the much smaller bot's torso, holding him like a child's plaything in one hand, one of the minibot's arms pinned to his side. He held Tailgate out for Cyclonus to see as the purple-armored warrior shakily raised his head, viscous pink fluid dribbling from a broken jaw.

“Good, you're still online. I want to see what passes across your optics as I crush this weakling in one hand,” Sixshot menaced. Cyclonus gurgled half-formed syllables of old cybex. He no longer had the resolve to disguise his distress. Ultra Magnus clung desperately to consciousness.

“I'll blow up this ship,” Tailgate declared boldly.

This got the multichanger's attention, pulling the minibot closer, up to eye level. “Explain,” he demanded, disbelieving Tailgate's claim.

“You see this?” the minibot asked, holding up his good arm. Smudged but readable words were still emblazoned there:

_Bomb Disposal._

“You're smart enough to read, aren't you?” Tailgate pressed, holding his forearm in Sixshot's face. “Why do you think someone with the words 'Bomb Disposal' would be stationed on this ship? A ship carrying someone as dangerous as you? I'm a demolitions expert. I was one of the _Primal Vanguard_. Somewhere on this ship there's a bomb powerful enough to turn a star into a singularity, and even someone like you isn't going to be able to make it away from this ship in one piece. I've got multiple ways of activating it, dead or alive, and I **will** use it to stop you.”

“ _You're lying_ ,” Sixshot accused, optics narrowing, giving the little bot a warning squeeze.

Tailgate coughed, trying to open his ventilation systems to the full, fans kicking on from heat build and distress. “Just keep pressing me!” he gasped, glaring at the bigger mech. “You know how we Autobots are, all self-sacrificial for the good of the whole and such. 'Till All Are One', remember?”

Sixshot paused for a moment. “Intriguing,” he praised, apparently impressed with Tailgate's resolve. “But let me now ask you: How long are you willing to wait to activate it? I am also well aware that Autobots tend to do stupid things to save their friends. Look over at their wounds, Minibot. How long do you think they have before they completely leak out and their sparks are snuffled? The big one might linger awhile, but the horned one I give about a cycle before he joins the Well. Furthermore, I can die quite happy making certain the rest of you go with me. I have no empire to live for anymore, and I have nothing to look forward to in Autobot hands but execution or dismemberment. This leaves your finger on the trigger, with the choice of death by my hands, or the deaths of you and all of your friends by your own hand. I will be thoroughly entertained watching you choose.”

“He doesn't have the rank for that call,” Bumblebee announced from behind Sixshot. “That's **my** decision to make.”

“The end result is the same,” Sixshot countered with a note of mirth. “I'm sure he will be consoled by the fact that he does not have to activate this bomb of his own volition.”

 **WARNING** , the ship's automated message system announced. **AUTOPILOT MALFUNCTION. COURSE NO LONGER MAINTAINED.**

“Oh _come on_!!” Bumblebee yelled, staring up at the loudspeaker.  
  
 **WARNING** , the ship continued as the cruel twist of fate rotated another one hundred and eighty degrees. **ENTERING SOL SYSTEM. PROJECTED DESTINATION: EARTH ORBIT. SYSTEM REGISTERED AS BLACKLISTED TERRITORY. CONTINUED COURSE CONSTITUTES VIOLATION OF THE TYREST ACCORD.**

“Frag my life,” Bumblebee muttered under his breath.

“I've changed my mind,” Sixshot mused. “I'll spare your ship, and remaining crew, Scout, and even let you jettison this cargo hold as you planned – I see your hand on the release – if the minibot goes with me in the void.”

“Un...unacceptable!” Ultra Magnus protested weakly from the center of the hold, his mangled body rising with audible difficulty, trying to help Cyclonus from the floor.

“Too bad!” Tailgate spat. “Do it, captain! I'm ready. I've had a _long and full life as a member of the Primal Vanguard_.”

The pieces instantly fit together in Bee's head. “Magnus, Cyclonus, get on your feet and get out of the hold. Now.”

“Tailgate--” Cyclonus protested weakly.

“ _That's an order!_ ” Bumblebee shouted, eyes fixed on Sixshot's face.

Sixshot nodded once in approval. “Spoken like the slayer of Megatron,” he praised, keeping a tight hold on Tailgate as he moved away from the entrance to the rest of the ship.

Cylonus' expression was inscrutable; as mangled as it had become in the battle, the storm in his spark could not be seen through visage. He felt it was good fortune to have been mauled. He wasn't sure he could maintain his standard steely facade. Leaning against Ultra Magnus, the two supporting each other to rise from the bowed panels of the floor, Cyclonus and the Autobot Force Commander staggered forward. It was instantly clear that the two would rather it had been a march to execution at the Phase Sixer's hands than to life bought by sacrificing Tailgate.

“You're _soft_ ,” Sixshot whispered derisively as Cyclonus passed by.

“Cyclonus,” Bumblebee warned sharply as the ancient warrior froze in place, hand tightening its grip on the hilt of his sword.

Ultra Magnus pushed forward, forcing Cyclonus to stumble a half step before moving on, a streak of energon dribbling behind the two of them as they at last passed the bay doors, moving behind their captain.

“What a day of surprises it has been, Sixshot mused, walking into the center of the room, Tailgate held like a can of energon rations in one hand. “I will give you the privilege of making peace with your allies before your end, Minibot. I respect courage. I will not defame your memory after you die.”

“We won't forget you, Tailgate,” Bumblebee added, somber and serious, his hand resting on the cargo bay's main controls.

Cyclonus forced himself to look back, his eyes locked on his student. His companion. His _friend_. The universe seemed to die around him, retreating into the oblivion of non-perception. These last moments with Tailgate, alive and in his sight, were being burned indelibly into his memories and mind.

Tailgate raised his free arm to salute his captain and crew. Only 'disposal' was visible to the others now.

“See you in the Pit, Decepticon,” Bumblebee growled lowly, pressing the button to close the doors.

Sixshot began to laugh. “I'll send you an invitation when I get there!”  
  
The doors shut and the bulkhead clattered and hissed as the locking mechanism ratcheted into place with an airtight seal.

Bumblebee looked away, hand hesitating over the ejection switch.

Click.

The ship lurched slightly with the finality of the cargo bay component's separation. It was done. The auto announcement system provided Tailgate's eulogy.

**CARGO BAY JETTISON ENGAGED. SEPARATION COMPLETE.**

The steady, rhythmic noise of leaking inner energon filled the void of sound.

Drip.  
Drip.  
 **Drop**.


	3. Catching Up

Cyclonus was not there when when the cargo bay exploded, shot down by the ship's laser canon defenses. Bumblebee had come later, after Cyclonus had stabilized and come out stasis lock, to deliver him the news.

His empathy for Chromedome had suddenly increased.

He had been there when they dealt with the monster that was Overlord. The same tactic had been pulled, and the Guiding Hand had seen fit to repeat the sacrifice of the small and innocent to counteract the black tide of a Decepticon Elite's sins. He tried to console himself that, like Rewind, the end had come mercifully and swiftly to Tailgate. He reminded himself that the aching gulf in his spark was the result of giving in to the futility of hope.

_Never again_ , he promised himself, staring vacantly up at the ceiling of the medical bay, as First Aid finished the last of Cyclonus' repairs. _No matter how helpless, no matter how pathetic, no matter how alone._ _Never again_.

* * * * *

Ultra Magnus gingerly took his seat across the table in the ship's Ready Room from Bumblebee, hands folded together. Neither wanted to be the first to discuss the details of the mission's failure. Neither wanted to address the proverbial elephant in the room as they waited for First Aid to join them.

The Force Commander preoccupied himself with arranging the files in front of him, adjusting them to be perfectly perpendicular to the edge of the table, centered precisely down to the nanometer. The meeting would be highly formal. Formality required decency and protocol.

“Why do you _do_ that?”

Ultra Magnus looked up. Bumblebee was pointing at the files, styluses and datapads the Force Commander was fidgeting with. Even the energon cube was square with the left corner of the table.

“Order,” Magnus answered calmly. The question had caught him somewhat off guard. “Someone has to make certain that protocols are followed. Laws are obeyed. The tide of entropy is dammed by the strong walls of order.”

“What if no one cares about order?” Bumblebee asked.

The edges of Magnus' mouth pulled a little tighter. “Then I guess it falls on me to bear what others refuse to.”

Bee looked back down at the tabletop. “And if a law is unjust?”

The doors to the Ready Room slid open and First Aid entered. Magnus closed his open mouth, the question left unanswered. It was time for the truly **difficult** questioning to begin.

* * * * *

Tailgate crackled static and gibberish as he began to reboot. The first though through his processor was question of whether or not he had joined the Well of Allsparks. If he _had_ , then all the stories he'd heard were blatant piles of scrap, because he was distinctly aching all over, and you weren't supposed to feel pain in the afterspark. It was just _unfair_. You'd go through your life suffering and hurting in multiple ways, and then Primus had to kick you right in the afterburner and allow you to feel the same things after you were dead? Scraplets. _Dirty scraplets._

 _No_ , Tailgate thought, _Be reasonable._ Y _ou can't feel pain when you're dead. Probably. Mostly probably. Wait, wasn't Cyclonus technically dead when he was part of the Dead Universe, and didn't all those Dead Universe zombie-things feel pain too? They'd grunt a bit when you hit them anyways._

This brought on an entirely new worry. _Oh Primus am I in the Dead Zone?! Is that where sparks go when they're extinguished?! Or – No. NO. Am I in the . . . in the_ Pit _? Oh I knew I shouldn't have lied about helping Swerve hide that last bottle of Nightmare Fuel inside one of Rung's ship models!! I was terrible, and now I'm going to pay for it FOREVER--_

“ **Wake up**.”

That voice. Tailgate wanted to jump out of his own mesh.

The minibot immediately jerked upright, sitting up straight in in the seat of a cockpit, banging his head into a low display console. It was tight, cramped quarters, not intended for something his size, but he managed to fit nonetheless.

“Ow!” he complained, rubbing his forehead. “Where am I?” he demanded, cranky and groggy.

“Inside me.” Sixshot's voice was coming from the flight console directly in front of Tailgate, reachable were it not for the fact that the little white bot was so curled up he was practically eating his knees.

The answer gave Tailgate pause. “That's the creepiest answer I have ever gotten to that question.”

“Be thankful you can ask it,” Sixshot brusquely retorted. “I could still space you. Or perhaps let my internal mechanisms crush you with a single transformation. I don't mind pain. Apparently _you_ do.”

“N-no, that's okay. You're very comfortable. Roomy even. A veritable luxury model,” he blathered nervously. “I enjoy being inside you and I'm certain that anyone else my size or even smaller would be honored to--”

“ **Shut up** ,” Sixshot ordered.

“okay!” Tailgate squeaked.

Silenced, the minibot decided the best thing to do would be to try to figure out where he was being taken. He could see the starfield in front of him through a video display in front of the chair. A bright yellow medium-sized star was looming large on the horizon, and the rounded masses of several planets were just starting to become visible. Dimly he recalled the ship's warning blaring into the cargo hold before everything went crazy: They were getting near the forbidden Sol sector, where the species calling themselves Human beings had developed on the third interior planet, called Earth.

Tailgate wasn't sure why Cybertronians weren't allowed to go to Earth; of course, Cybertronians weren't allowed to go to a **lot** of places in the galaxy. They were a blacklisted species, or so he'd been told. The conflict of the Autobot-Decepticon war that had spilled out across hundreds of planets and eliminated entire planetary populations of sentient life had guaranteed it. It was really the Decepticons who were to blame for that – they were the ones that had this whole Grand Plan thing that involved infiltrating other worlds, turning the populations against each other and then wiping them all out to make new military bases – but the Galactic Council didn't really seem to put much difference between good Cybertronians and bad. Only guys like Chief Justice Tyrest had been considered neutral in their eyes – and look at how _that_ turned out in the end. Maybe the other races in the galaxy couldn't really be blamed for their decision.

But then guys like Bumblebee, Ratchet and Ultra Magnus had been on Earth. They'd helped to save it from being cyber-formed and saved the human race from extinction. Wouldn't that have made humanity Autobot allies at the very least?

He'd asked once before but Bumblebee didn't want to talk about it. Neither did Ratchet, and Ultra Magnus was just too... _Ultra Magnus_ to ask these sort of questions. The last thing he needed was another 10,000 page lecture from someone whose name plaque didn't even fit on his desk. And it was a _big desk._

He'd missed too much in six million years. Rewind's highlights of the war helped fill in some missing details (and prevented him from making a very stupid decision) but there was still too much he didn't know. Tailgate's optics angled into a frown. He was tired of having to constantly play catch-up.

“Are we there yet?” Tailgate asked.

Sixshot hesitated to answer, as if uncertain how to take that question. “What?”

Well, that didn't get him killed! Tailgate decided to push his luck further. “We're going somewhere. Are we there yet?”

“Do we **look** as if we are arriving at a destination at this moment?” was the sixchanger's surly reply.

“Well no, but I'm assuming that since you haven't killed me and you didn't let me explode-and-or-die back there, we're going somewhere together because you have a plan,” Tailgate innocently stated.

This seemed to change the Elite's mood. “Ah, now you're being perceptive rather than **stupid**. Good,” he praised. “You are correct. I do have a plan for you, and we are going somewhere. That small planet – the third one – do you know of it?”

“It's Earth,” Tailgate said simply. “The sentient life there call themselves Humans.”

“Very good. That is where we are going,” Sixshot stated.

“But isn't that, y'know, off-limits because Humans want us all dead and they're dangerous?” Tailgate asked with only partially feigned naivete.

“Yes, and that's precisely why. Tell me, minibot, can you conceive of what it's like to be unkillable?” Sixshot asked.

Tailgate wasn't sure where this line of questioning was going, but it wasn't something he'd thought about before. Immortality? Yes. Oh Primus _yes,_ **especially** after his hand had accidentally passed under Ratchet's life scanning device. Since he was all balled up with nowhere to go, and no idea how long he'd be traveling inside a Decepticon Elite, he opted to give the question some thought instead of just tossing out witty repartee.

“I think once I kind of wished I was unkillable,” he confessed. “But no, I never really thought about it. This whole “millions of years of war” thing is kind of new to me.”

Now it was Sixshot's turn to be quizzical. “But you were a member of the _primal vanguard_ ,” he reminded the minibot. “That time was over six million years ago. You're three million years my senior. Certainly someone as aged and experienced as _bomb disposal technician_ of **your** caliber would have made a name for himself during the war.”

Tailgate wanted to crawl into himself and hide. “Well, uh, guys like us don't get much credit. They keep us hidden away from all the action until we're really needed. We're always cooped up in the R & D facilities,” he bluffed.

“I _see_ ,” Sixshot drawled smoothly.

“You're not buying this are you,” Tailgate sighed, defeated, tapping his servo-tips together uneasily.

“So where _did_ you put that bomb back on the ship?” Sixshot purred, corning the minibot like a feline with a mouse.

“Where someone like you wouldn't find it!” the little white bot blurted out.

“There's no need to continue the facade; your friends are likely convinced you're dead and on their way home to mourn. Your life is unequivocally in my hands to end or extend as it pleases me. I would highly suggest that you refrain from further clumsy attempts to outwit me. You lack the capacity.”

Tailgate sat back down in the pilot's seat, quashed.

“Older than the war, older than the caste system, old enough to remember the launch of the First Ark, and yet you know nothing about the war. You don't have the training to have been a member of the vanguard, that much is clear, so tell me – Tailgate was it? – what are you **really**?” Sixshot asked.

“I … I was a waste disposal unit. Fourth class. I don't know anything about the war, because I fell through the Mittreous Plateau, got injured, and passed out for... for six million years,” Tailgate explained with reticence. “I came out of stasis lock just before the launch of the Lost Light. I thought I was being invited onto the Ark.”

Sixshot was silent for an undetermined length of time.

“You're no better off than a _protoform_!” he retorted disdainfully.

“... Well that would explain why the holographic avatar I installed for that trip to Hedonia generated me as a human infant,” Tailgate offhandedly thought aloud.

The multichanger was quiet again as the Earth drew larger and larger in the viewscreen, leaving the minibot to stew in his own innermost energon. Seeds of despair were sprouting rapidly in the fertile soil of Tailgate's predicament. He really was going to die alone, but perhaps this time, at least there would be a handful of bots that would miss him when he was gone.

 * * * * *

“I'm sorry.”

Cyclonus had to turn his head to the left to verify the owner of those incongruous words.

Lying across from him on the repair slab was Whirl, or rather, what was left of Whirl. His lower half was unrecoverable, lost when the cargo bay had been jettisoned and detonated. He would live, but he would never function properly again.

"Why?" Cyclonus asked weakly, hardly able to move his repaired jaw, his nanocellular functions still working on the micro attachments and connections needed to restore him fully. First Aid had done a remarkable job with what he had on hand, but even Cybertronians had to spend a small amount of time in recalibration after massive trauma.

He was puzzled, and not in the best state of mind to accept any sort of olive branch offered by the ex-Wrecker. He tried to grasp what it was that Whirl was apologizing for, but in the end, was too exhausted and mentally devastated to want to put much thought into it. His internal diagnostics were still reading him a steady stream of error messages in the form of discomfort. His sensors were still giving him static and Whirl's image was ghosting, his optics not fully centered.

"What are you blathering about?" he tersely spat, placing a hand over his eyes to try to force them to reboot in sudden darkness.

"Tailgate," Whirl replied, uncharacteristically withdrawn.

" _Spare me your pity!_ " Cyclonus hissed, looking away. He was in no mood to deal with Whirl, and the ex-Wrecker's attempt at an apology was rust in the wound as far as he was concerned.

" **No.** " Whirl's will was carbon steel. He wasn't going to drop it and walk away. "No, you don't get to give me the big brush-off, Cyclonus. Even this means we go backsies on being cool with each other, _no_." He turned his head to look at the ceiling, lying back on the medical slab as much as was possible, staring into the overhead repair armature that hung over him like a spider.

"See, it was supposed to be _me_ ," Whirl quietly continued, ignoring the searing glare coming from the ancient Cybertronian nearby. "You're no idiot, Cyclonus. Taking Sixshot back to Cybertron aboard this bucket? Yeah, he was gonna escape. I knew he was gonna escape. It's fait accompli." The blue rotorcraft wheezed through his vents, internals seizing up for a moment and then releasing. "That's why I wanted to just get it over with. Sixshot would escape, I'd bring it Wrecker-style, and he and I would go up in a big fireball in space just like Overlord and Rewind. I'd die a hero and it would all be over."

"Dying a hero?" Cyclonus growled. "Is that all you care about? After every contemptible, rotten, sin-smeared thing you have done in your tremendous waste of a life, you planned out your own death to make yourself look like a hero?!"

Whirl looked back at Cyclonus. "You were right, you know. When you told 'Bee to jettison the cargo bay, and give me what I wanted? You were right." The rectangular wedge of Whirl's head was illuminated in the center by the brighter glow of a single golden optic lens. "But you said it yourself. My life is a waste. Everything that I done - you think I can repay that? Being a Wrecker, it gave me some absolution, but it wasn't _enough_. The war ended, and I wasn't _done_ yet." He raised his claws. "I can't go back to what I was before all **this** happened. Before _Megatron_ happened. All I could do was keep killing the bad guys and hoping that at the end of it all I could just die breaking even."

A panicked, weak laugh bubbled out of the ex-Wrecker's torso. "Tailgate. Brave little Tailgate - he didn't do anything to deserve what he got, and here I am - I'm still _alive!_ " Whirl slammed his arms down on the table as hard as he could. "I'm still alive, and now I'm **useless!!** "

Cyclonus swore that after Tailgate's end, that would be the end of it. He would never allow himself to care again, not about anyone. He'd violated his own belief that no one should ever cling to hope. He'd paid the price for his mistake in the pain that rolled through his spark at Tailgate's end - and yet, here and now, he could not help but pity Whirl, as he saw through the ranting, as the ex-Wrecker teetered on the edge of desperation and madness in front of him. He could not help but wonder if he would do the same, if robbed of mobility and alt-mode.

"... You are not useless." Cyclonus delayed the words, pondering if he should have said them as an afterthought. No, he reasoned, it was the right thing to do, no matter how difficult. The Guiding Hand was certainly testing him this day. He set his sight on Whirl's head. "If anyone can figure out how to be a killing machine with only a torso, it would be you."

"You mean it?" Whirl asked quietly.

"I do," Cyclonus affirmed, relenting from his anger with a sigh.

"Then it's settled. We're gonna avenge Tailgate. You and me, Cyclonus. We're gonna make that gearstick pay," Whirl announced, "and maybe ... maybe I can still go out in that blaze of glory."

Cyclonus' face remained inscrutable. "For Tailgate, then."

"For Tailgate," Whirl agreed.

* * * * *

“So this is Earth,” Tailgate mused.

Sixshot had been quiet for the entire ride down, not saying anything more to Tailgate after their last conversation. Tailgate wasn't sure why Sixshot had been tight-lipped after worming out the fact that the minibot wasn't the great heroic figure of the Golden Age that he'd passed himself off to be, but he couldn't work up the nerve to ask Sixshot anything more. Even when the multichanger transformed and ejected Tailgate like a first stage booster rocket onto the ground, he hadn't spoken. Needless to say, the minibot was beginning to fear his long, unlived life was about to come to a messy end.

It hadn't happened, however, not just yet. Though Sixshot had grabbed him back up to prevent him from running, he hadn't harmed the smaller Cybertronian. He hadn't even give him a warning squeeze, which allowed Tailgate to relax enough to try to take in his surroundings.

Earth was magnificent, or so Tailgate thought. The humans were tiny, but then again, not everyone was the size of a Cybertronian; nevertheless, sometimes very dangerous (and even deadly) things could come in small packages. It was best for them to remain cautious and out of sight of the natives.

The two had landed outside a large city in the middle of a desert; with next to nothing surrounding them for miles it was easy to slip in undetected, and therefore unmolested, to make a landing. They would have to scan Earth vehicle modes, but finding anything suitable would be next to impossible without entering the human metropolis in the distance; at the same time, they couldn't just walk right in to try on the local fashions.

“Yes,” Sixshot finally answered gruffly. “Do you have a holomatter avatar?”

So that was how they were going to do it. Not a bad idea, Tailgate thought. “Yeeees?” he replied with a high note of caution in his answer. Well, he had one, but it wasn't going to be terribly _useful._

Sixshot grunted again. “Good. I will activate mine. We'll look for Earth-modes. I will only warn you once about trying to escape me. If I don't find and kill you, the natives _will._ ”

“Yeah yeah I got it,” Tailgate grumbled. His attentions turned to his impending “handicap”. “I uh, I hope you have something that's more … **mobile** than my form.”

“Whyyyy?” Sixshot asked, narrowing the shutters on his optic visor.

“Oh you'll see,” Tailgate replied nonchalantly. Transforming into a small and highly compact wheeled vehicle, the minibot projected his holomatter avatar.

A human infant appeared, sitting upright on the ground, partially inside a baby sling, on the desert floor a short distance away. 

Sixshot snorted in disgust. “Figures,” he muttered, looking down in the tiny Tailgate-baby. “At least it will blend in well. Humans generally do not harm their young.”

“So what about yours?” Tailgate said around his pacifier.

Sixshot transformed into jet mode and rested across from Tailgate's vehicle form, weapons aligned to shoot the minibot if he should feel the need to.

A ninja in 16th century Japanese garb appeared nearby. “I believe this will be sufficiently mobile,” he announced, walking over to pick up Baby Tailgate and his convenient carrier.

“Thanks,” Tailgate replied, adjusting himself to look over Sixshot's shoulder as the two began to trek towards the outskirts of Las Vegas. “It would be an awfully long way to crawl.”

 

* * * * *

“Am I allowed to ask questions?” Tailgate queried from over Sixshot's right shoulder as the artificial ninja continued effortlessly across the empty desert wastes, just a short distance from the suburb outskirts of Las Vegas.

“I will answer questions I feel like answering,” was the noncommittal reply.

“Well, at least it's a start,” Tailgate muttered. He stopped to take the pacifier out of his mouth and stare at it. “How do human protoforms even **talk** with one of these things in their mouth?”

“Perhaps it is to _prevent_ them from speaking,” Sixshot curtly suggested, casting a glare at the artificial infant at his back.

“Well that seems silly,” Tailgate said, oblivious to Sixshot's hinting. “How else are they going to convey their needs to their progenitors?”

“Humanity is an odd species,” Sixshot relented, feeling that indulging Tailgate's curiosities might earn him a measure of peace. “They are one of the only non-Council species to have ever driven us off their world.”

“I take it that's because you guys were trying that 'Great Plan' of yours here,” Tailgate accused.

Sixshot humphed, smiling to himself beneath the cloth mask wrapped over his human nose and mouth. “The Decepticons only reached phase two. I was called in well ahead of schedule,” he said, feeling no need to be secretive about it now. What happened back then would be recorded by the Autobot victors. At this point, all he could do was tell his side of the story as plainly as possible. There was no Decepticon cause to defend anymore. “I was the first Cybertronian the general populace of this planet became aware of.”

“Well, that explains why they're hostile,” Tailgate flatly stated.

“Oh, it was more than that. There was the occupation of one of their largest cities, the attempt to cyberform their world, the particle cannons from New Darkmount, the general destruction caused by both Autobot and Decepticon warfare … one could say that they'd simply had enough,” Sixshot said. “Have your Autobot allies never told you why even they, being so _noble_ and _stalwart_ , are not welcome on this world?”

This gave Tailgate pause, and his tiny baby face screwed up cutely in thought. “... No. No one even wants to talk about it much.”

The lights of Las Vegas loomed large in the distance, drowning the two artificial humans in its shadow against the skyline. Skyscrapers glittered, white and reflective, rebuilt and re-engineered in the time that had passed since humanity was shaken out of its galactic innocence. Small vehicles darted through the air like multihued metal birds, weaving in and out of the urban sprawl. The highways in the distance streamed with tracked and treaded vehicles, far different in design than the ones Sixshot had encountered in his first days on Earth.

Now, among all the movement, light and sound, the taller forms of robotic humanoids flitted in and out of the mix.

“Because for all the good you did, they judged us all as equals. They did not distinguish between Autobot and Decepticon. We were all alike to them,” Sixshot explained. “But more importantly … this species is more like Decepticon than Autobot.”

Tailgate seemed confused. “Humans are evil?” he asked. From what he had heard about Verity Carlo from Ultra Magnus, that hardly seemed the case.

“They bought weapons from Swindle to use against Autobot allies and Decepticon foes alike. They captured Cybertronians to dissect them. They gutted Cybertronian bodies to turn them into weapons they could fuse into and control,” Sixshot said firmly, stopping in his tracks to look into Tailgate's eyes as if to impress upon the other Cybertronian the wickedness of the human species through tone of voice and eye contact alone.

“They are the offal of Unicron,” he continued, “generated from the anti-spark energies of his dormant physical form over the eons.”

Tailgate's eyes got huge. “Wait, that would mean that Earth is....!” he trailed off, covering his mouth with both hands, suddenly fearful that the chaos-bringer might be listening, ready to spring out of the shadows at the mention of his name.

“Correct,” Sixshot said. “It is not a secret shared with the common masses of Cybertron.” Noticing Tailgate's sudden terror, he turned and stamped his feet into the dust a few times. “See? Nothing. Unicron's anti-spark is no longer in his body. This is nothing but his empty husk now. His degenerate organic spawn have free run of it now.”

“you're sure?” Tailgate squeaked timidly, clinging desperately to Sixshot's neck.

“Quite,” the multichanger-in-disguise calmly assuaged.

“You're _really_ sure?” Tailgate questioned again.

Sixshot's eyebrows drew together beneath his his hood. “Yes.”

“You're REALLY REALLY--”

“ **YES!** ” Sixshot snapped. “Stop being such a protoform!”

“Well, all things considered ... ,” Tailgate pointed out, waving his pacifier in one hand sheepishly. 

“Right. How _foolish_ of me to forget,” Sixshot grumbled.

Without warning, the shadow of a jet flashed over them, kicking up a cloud of sand and dust. Moments later the rumble of a sonic boom shook the area. The two artificial humans, startled out of their conversation, watched the airborne vehicle shoot of into the distance. Still visible on the horizon, it looped upwards in a right angle – and then transformed, landing on a tarmac in robot form.

“... I thought Cybertronians were blacklisted from this planet,” Tailgate mused, sounding completely puzzled.

“We are,” Sixshot affirmed, but he, too, sounded curious about this strange transformer in the distance. “But it appears things have changed since I was last on this ball of mud and flesh.”

“They don't seem to be attacking that robot either,” Tailgate noted, keeping his tiny eyes focused on the jet-frame robot as it walked over to a group of other robots lined up together outside a large hangar.

Sixshot did not immediately answer, but after a few moments of silence between the two of them, the multichanger began to laugh, slowly at first, and then with more mirth and intensity. “At last!” he cried. “A challenge! There might be a worthy challenge here for me!”

“That's what this is all about?!” Tailgate shouted in disbelief. “You kidnapped me and drug me to UNICRON'S CORPSE full of Humans that want to kill us, because you were BORED?!”

“Do you remember when I asked you if you had ever thought about what it was like to be unkillable, boy?”Sixshot asked, unruffled by the angry infant shouting into his “ear”.

Tailgate stopped. He'd never answered. The conversation had darted off down another trail like a startled rabbit. Sixshot continued, answering for his smaller prisoner.

“As you may well have guessed, I am a point one percenter, and furthermore, I am the **best** point one percenter. I heard that you fought Overlord on your ship, the Lost Light? Overlord was never a threat to me, and Tarn sought to follow in my footsteps.”

“I was sparked to be the best fighting machine Cybertron had to offer, and in my time as a member of the Decepticon Elite, I brought entire inhabited worlds to waste. I fought with Titans. I battled with the strongest warriors that either of our armies brought to bear, and in the end, it was all too _easy._ Boredom is a powerful thing, Tailgate. In your long and storied life, have you ever felt unfulfilled? As if everything you had ever done was a waste of your time and efforts? That every so-called challenge set before you was just another vast disappointment?”

“Millions of years stretched on and there was never an end to it. Never an end to the killing, to the fighting, to the war – oh, it had its moments of satisfaction here and there but they quickly became footsteps in a long and winding trail to nowhere. I am not going to go back to Cybertron, to be disassembled, to be locked away to rot in boredom, to face so-called “justice” in the shambles of Iacon on a wild, disheveled planet. No, Tailgate. I have my pride, and I am a warrior. I do not disagree with my life coming to an end, but it will be on **my** terms, and at the hands of someone or something that is, at last, stronger than I.”

“So... what about me?” Tailgate asked quietly.

Sixshot laughed. “You are simply a guarantee that the other Autobots will come and give me the worthy end I have always looked for. When it is all said and done, you can go back to being the nobody I am guessing you always were. I have no real desire to end your life. I don't seek out and slay children.”

The words were sharp and cut to the spark. “What about all those inhabited worlds you destroyed? There were children there, I'll wager,” Tailgate protested.

“By the time I had reached a world in Phase Six or even Phase Five, most of the population had already turned on and was destroying itself. I brought an end to the suffering, conflict and desolation already begun on that world. I put down sick and dying species as rapidly as possible. I did not loiter in hopes of catching stray children to torture,” Sixshot snorted.

It was a side of Sixshot that Tailgate wondered if anyone had ever lived long enough to see. There was something under all that armor and weapons, a small spark of pride, honor and nobility that the Decepticon cause had never eliminated. Despite the insulting truth that the multichanger all but rubbed in his face, Tailgate could not help but pity him: Sixshot had come to Earth to die.

 


	4. Into The Fire

It had been a long time since Jack had laid eyes on Bumblebee.

Skywatch was alive with activity as the decontamination crews went over the Autobot Shuttle post-landing. The hangar bays were still ratcheting closed above them, the last traces of the bright Nevada sun thinning away into a mere sliver down over the slate gray metal tarmac. The interior lights flickered on overhead, replacing the warm yellow solar illumination with the pale, dead white of artificial illumination. Only machines were allowed inside the sealed hangar bay, checking for radiation or foreign energies. The human representatives of Skywatch were kept behind transparisteel viewing walls until the Cybertronians had been cleared for entry. As a precaution, plasma turrets in the upper corners of the roof trained on the Autobots as they made their way down the landing platform. It wasn't exactly the welcome they would have received fifteen years ago.

Miko would not be coming immediately; she had to pick the kids up from school. She was excited to hear that the Autobots were back, but Jack was certain she would have been a bit more eager if it had been Bulkhead or Wheeljack on that vessel. She had the same sort of deep camaraderie with them that soldiers fighting in trenches together developed. Nevertheless, she hoped to see even grouchy old Magnus in the mesh again before something terrible happened.

Terrible was happening a lot more lately, and Jack was less than enthused when Bumblebee sent him a message that a Decepticon escapee was headed to Earth. Even less enthused when he was told it wasn't just any Decepticon, but a Phase Sixer - the same one that had violated Cybertronian secrecy on earth and necessitated the eventual escalation of alien warfare on earth. The current ban on Cybertronians could be laid squarely on that glitch's shoulders.

"Bee," came an almost reverent whisper from beside Jack.

Rafael Esquivez wasn't going to miss this for anything. Fifteen years had seemed like an eternity to be out of regular contact with his best friend in the whole universe. He hadn't been allowed to go anywhere near the battle sites to even see Bee during the international incident. His parents would have been insane to have let a preteen boy like him within miles of giant fighting robots.

Jack's parents had been a bit more lenient, but there had been considerable extenuating circumstances in that regard.

Colonel William Fowler stepped into the waiting room alongside Jack and Raf. Despite the gray hair, he didn't seem to show his age, and he'd trimmed down to his Army Ranger weight. Mrs. Fowler had insisted, after all. Nurses were picky about good health, and Jack's mom was probably the most picky nurse Jack had ever known.

"Well tie me to a flagpole and give me a salute," the Colonel muttered with a smile on his lips, looking at the Autobots assembling on the hangar floor, allowing the decontamination machines to scan them for errant radiation. "I never thought I'd see those big metal mugs again."

"Looks like there's some new mugs, too," Raf pointed out. "Bee and Ultra Magnus I know, but the other three I don't - Hey, is one of them piggy-backing the other?"

"Doesn't look like he has any legs," Colonel Fowler mused.

"They were carrying Sixshot when he escaped. If that's the worst of their injuries, Primus is smiling on them," Jack commented.

"Yeah, well, let's just hope Uncle Sam decides to be just as generous," Fowler stated. "Our hands are tied tighter than they used to be. An international incident tied to us right now would plunge us right back into the second depression from economic sanctions alone."

"With all due respect, Colonel," Jack countered, "We're gonna have bigger things to worry about than economic sanctions if Sixshot decides to begin global genocide here. Even if he doesn't, his presence alone might be all it takes to stir up a full-scale Breaker revolt."

"Maybe we should try to ask for their help," Raf suggested, looking longingly through the viewing window, wanting to rush out and catch up with Bumblebee.

"They might not be willing to help us anymore, thanks to Spike Witwicky," Jack sighed grimly, "and we have no idea how they're going to react to the TransMechanoids."

The machines inside the hangar bay trundled away from the Autobots, and the ready lights changed from warning read to blue stand-by. The transparisteel doors unsealed. "Well boys," Fowler said, "We're just going to have to hike up our britches and find out."

 

*.*.*.*

Robots! There were so many robots!

Las Vegas seemed to be littered with them. They were vehicles, they were humanoids, they were animals, they were inanimate objects that Tailgate and Sixshot attempted to guess the functions of across their internal radios. Everywhere they looked, amid the lights and noise and chaos of urban human civilization, there were  **robots.**

Sixshot's somewhat paranoid behavior paid off for the two holomatter avatars. Utilizing shadowed areas and out of the way nooks and crannies between buildings, they kept out of the public eye. While Tailgate wouldn't have drawn more notice than the occasional warm glances of those with a fondness for babies, Sixshot stood out like a strobe light in the middle of a dark room.

"You're  _sure_  Cybertronians are blacklisted on this planet?" Tailgate questioned over his internal com link.

" **Quite** ," Sixshot gruffly retorted, narrowing his eyes, the only visible part of his human false-face. "These are not Cybertronians. None of them wear any kind of badge or identification, and their behavior is too... automaton. Look." The ninja pointed to a automobile sales lot across the road from them. "Do you think any of us would simply sit there in the open sun awaiting our time to be sold?"

"Maybe not  _sold_ ," Tailgate recanted, recalling what he had been told of the caste system back home. He craned his head over Sixshot's shoulder to try to get a better look at what was going on. Vehicles of all shapes were passing by in clusters at regular intervals, weaving in and out among tall white-gray buildings that rose high into the sky. Holographic ads hovered in mid-air in front of shops and along the sides of office buildings. Human beings passed them by on the sidewalk, the sounds of conversations, communication devices and shoe bottoms hitting concrete mingling with the soft whine of hydraulics, electronic tones and the  _krunk-krunk_ of heavier footsteps.

"Maybe we should just scan one of the vehicles around here and blend in," the minibot suggested, "seeing as how we don't exactly do that really well as-is."

"Very well, but I require something with more firepower than these commercial models offer," Sixshot stated.

"Oh, right, because there are combat models just rolling down the highway like it's no big deal," Tailgate retorted.

Sixshot grunted. "Fine. You may begin moving closer to the city. There's a vehicle market not far from our position. I'll be sure to help you pick something that  _blends in._ "

 

*.*.*.*

It had been a very long time since Bumblebee had set his optics on Jack Darby.

Well, it used to be Darby - apparently Jack's mother, June, and Agent William Fowler - now Colonel William Fowler - had hit things off well and ended up a mated pair. What was it humans called it? - Right,  _married_. The closest thing that a Cybertronian had to that sort of pair bonding was  _conjunx endura_ , and it certainly didn't have anything to do with producing more Cybertronians. Apparently that meant a change in Jack's name from Darby to Fowler for legal reasons Bumblebee didn't quite comprehend or have time to worry about, but then hey, Orion Pax had his name changed too. It was the little similarities that helped when two different species were trying to come to terms with one another.

Coming to terms was harder than it used to be. After the failed attempt to cyberform Earth using the Omega Lock, the fight had intensified to unimaginable levels before Megatron's ultimate defeat. New York, one of the most populated cities in the world, had been reduced to radioactive debris after a wave of Decepticon occupation and extermination. Sixshot had blown everyone's cover when Megatron decided to up his game ahead of schedule.

There had been nothing Fowler could do to hold off the nuclear assault; a combined effort of terrified nations in Europe and Asia had pushed the button. If it had not been for the obvious threat to humanity that combiners like Devastator and Bruticus had brought to bear, world war three would have been a reality in short order. As it was, the United States of America had borne the brunt of global sanctions after Swindle had leaked to everyone - Autobot and Earth alike - that the head of Skywatch, Spike Witwicky, had been buying arms from the Decepticons and allowing for Cybertronian experimentation all along.

Skywatch had been the Autobot's shield in the final push to get the Decepticons off Earth. They had worked together, hidden the Autobots, supported them, even going so far as to free Optimus Prime after he'd been captured by the less Cybertronian-aware branches of the US military. Skywatch was supposed to help bring Earth up to speed with Cybertronian tech in order to help the fledgling human species from becoming extinct in the Great War. Fowler had put his full efforts into working alongside the Autobots, and making sure Jack, Miko and Rafael, when they came of age, were able to be recruited into the elite organization. It was a heavy blow when the then Colonel Witwicky had shown his true colors, and betrayed the Autobots for his personal glory and gain.

Skywatch had not been the same after that. Jack, Miko and Raf had mercifully not been old enough to be present for the day when the Autobots abandoned Earth, wounded and betrayed. Prowl's last scrap of trust had died that day. Nevertheless, despite all that had happened, despite Bumblebee becoming the next Prime after Optimus, despite the fight to restore the Well of All Sparks and the dragging chaos of trying to rebuild Cybertron in the face of so many returning refugees, there was at least one human that had left a stamp on Bee's mind, and every so often, occupied his thoughts. That same human was now running towards him, bolting out of the observation area beyond the open area of Hangar E.

"Bee, you came back!" Rafael cried aloud in joy, racing to catch up with the taller Cybertronian. Bumblebee laughed in spite of himself and crouched down on one knee to do his best to return the hug that was happening to his shin.

"Yeah, I just wish it had been on better circumstances," Bee apologized, smile on his lips. Raf had grown since Bee saw him last, no more the tiny twelve-year-old with the big head and big hair hiding behind the screen of a laptop. Now twenty-seven, Rafael had had quite a growth spurt, managing to stand just a bit taller than Jack Fowler. He was lean and lanky in build, and the white lab coat over his uniform suited him and his thin-rimmed, electronics-enhanced glasses well. His hair was still as big as ever, though his head finally seemed in proportion to the rest of him.

"You got bigger," Bee commented as Raf took a step back to look up at him, the young man grinning widely.

"Well yeah, that happens after fifteen years," Raf chuckled. Lowering his voice as the other approached, he added in a murmur, "It's good to have you around again. I really missed you."

Bumblebee's spark ached a little hearing that. His duties as leader had swept him away from friends on earth and the promises of continued contact. "I missed you too." He meant it.

Ultra Magnus made a noise like clearing his throat.

"Killjoy," Bee muttered as he stood up, giving Raf a gentle pat on the shoulder.

"We will have time for pleasantries later, Bumblebee," Ultra Magnus said, formal and dignified as always. "Right now there are more important matters to attend."

"You know I'm still Prime, right?" Bee questioned with a sideways glance at the taller white, red and blue carrier.

"That does not mean I cannot give advice," Ultra Magnus responded flatly, unperturbed by Bumblebee's irritation.

"The more things change," Jack stated with half a smile, shaking his head, then walking out past the safety zone towards the Cybertronians.

Colonel Fowler followed after, arms behind his back, looking up at the mechanical giants in front of him. His neck was going to ache if he had to keep his head tilted this far backwards. Even when he'd first come in contact with the Autobots, he was no spring chicken, and now that he was more ...  _seasoned_ , as June gently put it, he wasn't going to be able to push his physiology like he used to. He mentally noted to use the balcony above next time to see them all more eye to eye. Or eye to optic, however the case may be. "So, gentlemen," he began, addressing the motley crew of Autobots, "what brings you back to our little neck of the galaxy?"

"Much as I wish it was a courtesy call, it's not," Bumblebee explained. "We wouldn't have broken the blacklist if it weren't a serious matter. You know why we're here, and we need your help."

"We're willing to help," Jack said, "but things are different now here on Earth, and our hands are going to be somewhat tied. We have problems of our own to attend to that outweigh a rogue Decepticon."

The Autobots looked at each other, somewhat puzzled by Jack's statement. "What sort of problems?" First Aid asked, curious.

Colonel Fowler shouted to the soldiers stationed on the second floor balcony of that ringed the interior of the hangar. "Get the Bot-sized chairs, boys!" Turning back to the Autobots he added, "You might want to sit down before we get into it."

 

*.*.*.*

"A  _trash collection bot_?" Tailgate whined. "Oh come on, I know you have me hostage and all that but you want me to scan a trash collection bot?!"

"It blends in, does it not?" Sixshot smugly answered. "I'm certain that it would gather as much attention  **here**  as it would back on Cybertron."

Tailgate grumbled obscenities under his breath as he passed a scanning beam over the compact, dirty, white-gray street maintenance robot. It continued on its way down the edges of the road, uncaring and unaware that its twin now sat on the sidewalks a short distance away.

"Huh. This feels ... strange," Tailgate said, extending a pair of manipulator arms from the front of his low-slung, boxy new alt-mode. "Sixshot, have you ever scanned an alt-mode on an alien planet?"

Sixshot had already duplicated a slick-looking indigo automobile that was obviously designed for speed and luxury. He pulled up behind Tailgate's alt-mode, keeping a close watch on his captive. "Yes. Why do you ask?"

"Well, is it supposed to feel like... redundancy?" Tailgate questioned, opening and closing the three-fingered claws at the end of his forward armatures.

"No," Sixshot flatly replied. "Although... I too felt something strange about scanning these Earth vehicles." He went silent for a moment and Tailgate quickly retracted his arms as a pair of humans on bicycles wheeled past them.

"A feeling of redundancy, you called it? ... Yes, there is something very familiar about these transforming human creations. I think this bears further investigation," Sixshot pondered aloud, coming to a firm decision.

A glossy red sports car with black stripes, spoiler and side markings parallel parked on the street opposite Sixshot and Tailgate's newly acquired alt-modes. "Man, those two are total idiots. Five bucks says they get picked up in the next ten minutes."

A bulky indigo sport utility vehicle rolled up behind the copper car, parking behind. "Yeah, but did you see what they just  _did_? How did they change their shape like that?"

A white and red utility repair truck on tank treads, crane folded down over its top, rolled up to a stop behind the SUV. "They could be bait. Quality Control is getting more cunning by the day. I advise caution."

"Cheese it guys. QC's due for street patrol any minute, and we're here for the carrier, not the eraserheads over there," the vermillion sports car chastised, shutting off her engine. The other two vehicles went silent, looking all the world like their drivers were inside the deli nearby, getting something to eat on lunchbreak.

The street lights all turned red, and a series of high pitched beeps filled the air. PA boxes posted at the intersections both in front of and behind the two Cybertronians crackled to life.

_"Quality Control check will begin in five minutes. All TransMechanoids will be scanned for reformatting records. All Transmechanoids who have missed their last scheduled reformatting will be transported to Maintenance Hub 56-A for scheduled reformatting. If your Transmechanoid is missing, please contact Quality Control. Remember: Regular reformatting prevents dangerous software glitches and accidents. Always blank your Transmechanoid on schedule. It's not just a good idea: It's the law. Thank you for your cooperation."_

At the end of the street, a huge, heavily armored tracked vehicle made a wide turn and started up the middle of the road. Charcoal gray and marked with insignias designating it as a police vehicle and priority vehicle, it resembled a bullet train engine fused with a tank and a double decker bus. Red, white and blue lights flashed on top of the vehicle. A radar dome rested in the center of the roof, and scanning beam arrays in rotating domes along its sides were homing in on vehicles lined up along either side of the street.

It made an alarm chirp and came to a stop with a hiss of pressurized gasses and faint squeal of metal against metal. From deep inside the vehicle, a loudspeaker announced in a flat, synthesized monotone:  _"Reformat schedule out of date. This Transmechanoid will now be escorted to Maintenance Hub 56-A for blanking. Owner has been notified. Thank you for your cooperation."_  The back of the vehicle opened into a ramp, and a series of smaller wheeled drone robots poured out like an ant swarm over a van-like automobile. The smaller drones clamped themselves to the sides of the vehicle while some rolled under it; interlinking to each other with metal cables, they engaged lifting jacks, and picked the vehicle up, rolling it to the back of the carrier, up the ramp and inside. The liftgates shuttered closed and locked down, ramp retracting. The carrier's powerful engine rumbled and it began its slow, steady crawl up the street.

+ **Uh, Sixshot? Do we have reformatting schedules?** \+ Tailgate asked over his internal communicator, worried.

+ **Highly unlikely,** \+ Sixshot responded back.

+ **Then what are we going to do? I don't know about you, but being "reformatted" doesn't sound like something I want to participate in,** \+ Tailgate radioed back as the carrier rolled ever closer.

+ **Then we will destroy it,** \+ Sixshot said plainly.

+ **Isn't that going to blow our cover?** \+ Tailgate asked, pensive.

+ **We have what we need now. I see no reason to maintain it,** \+ Sixshot flatly answered.

+ **That's easy for you to say, you're a walking army!** \+ Tailgate protested. + **I'm a waste disposal unit posing as a waste disposal unit!** +

+ **Then it should be easy for me to keep you unharmed,** \+ Sixshot smoothly radioed back, his engines revving up audibly in preparation for battle.

Tailgate was stunned by the fact that Sixshot was actually going to cover him against what could be any number of unknown enemies or weapons technology - at least for now as a part of his plan - but his delayed expression of gratitude was cut off as the carrier homed in on another vehicle further behind them in the street.

Or, to be specific, it wasn't a vehicle - it resembled a large Earth insect, the kind that could be mistaken for an Insecticon if you weren't positive there weren't any Insecticons left on the planet. Tucked out of the way into side-street between buildings meant for trash disposal access, it was a robotic cricket with a main body roughly the size of a large motorcycle. It was primarily black, its chassis plating ending in iridescent metal edging that added a note of decorative beauty to the mechanical beast. Its build looked nimble and swift, with long sweeping antennae, thin multi-jointed legs, long, translucent wings, and a slender abdomen ending in a sharply-pointed rod, the purpose of which Tailgate could only guess at. Its optics were bright aqua, seeming lively and alert under their hexagonal mosaic surface, fixed on the carrier as its scanners tracked the cricket in return.

 _"Reformatting schedule not found. Confiscation commencing."_  The back of the carrier opened and the tiny wheeled robots made their descent, swarming towards the cricketoid. Sixshot maintained his position, observing impassively, preparing for when the carrier would scan himself and Tailgate and find no records. Tailgate inched forward, having difficulty sitting still.

"No!" the cricket shouted in denial as the drone swarmers tried to wrap cables around her back legs. She - the voice sounded definitively female - began kicking away the retrieval drones. "No!" she shouted again, struggling to disentangle herself as more cables were wrapped around her limbs, the surprisingly strong, heavy drones beginning to pull her like a roped steer towards the opening liftgate of the carrier.

Confusion and urgency rose in Tailgate's spark. No, this was no automaton he was seeing, he was sure of it! This was something that had some kind of life to it. It was aware of the danger in front of it, it was resisting being pulled into the carrier. Drones didn't do that. The other "transmechanoid" didn't so much as move as it was taken inside the back of that armored monster. This Insecticon (he had decided to think of her that way, it was just easier and came automatically to his mind) was fighting for what could be her life, and Tailgate didn't want to just stand back and let her die. Phase Sixer be slagged, he was going to save her-

\- Until three vehicles across from him suddenly transformed and ran towards the carrier!

 

...

_"They're called Transmechanoids," Colonel Fowler explained as the Autobots took their seats around the oversized table, Fowler, Jack and Rafael standing on the tabletop on the other side of it to remain visible. "After the the Decepticons left, after Witwicky betrayed you and Skywatch both, after the last Cybertronian was gone, the world largely got its act together - somethin' about threats from outside the planet made everyone stop and reconsider all the petty arguments we'd had as nation-states for the last couple of thousand years. There was a concerted effort between several brain trusts in five major countries to take everything we'd found that you and the Decepticons left behind, and try to bootstrap ourselves into a planet capable of defending itself from extra-planetary assault. We didn't want another New York or Darkmount to happen."_

_"With some retroengineering, five different tech development facilities managed to recreate the Cybertronian body - minus the spark, minus the intellect - thus, "Transforming Mechanized Androids", or Transmechanoids. T-Mechs or Transmechs if you wanna shorten it up a bit," Fowler continued. "At first they were just for defensive purposes only, but eventually we saw a use for them in civilian lines. We freed up the technology and the developers from those five international braintrusts founded PentaTech, which made T-Mechs available to the public. Now we use them for about anything you can imagine - construction, environmental repair and management, shipping, even as family vehicles and helpers. In the last fifteen years, Earth's economy has shifted, and T-Mechs have become irreplaceable. We need them as much as we needed oil in the Gasoline Age."_

 

...

"Make it quick boys, the cops will be here in short order!" the red and black female robot shouted, leaping out of vehicle mode and running towards the cricketoid. Hot on her heels, the indigo SUV and red and white repair truck shifted out of vehicle forms, becoming a heavy set bruiser of a mech, and a slender, nimble mech with a crane over his right shoulder.

"On it!" the repair truck crisply retorted in a calm baritone voice, leaping over a parked vehicle, running towards the Quality Control carrier. "Dirt Drop, would you be so kind as to keep the carrier in one place?" he asked as his larger companion thundered across the asphalt, shaking the ground a little with each step. 'Dirt Drop' nodded, a huge grin spreading across his face. "I'll hold it down, you do the surgery!"

+ **What an interesting turn of events,** \+ Sixshot radioed to Tailgate, sounding thoroughly amused.

+ **I-I thought there weren't any Cybertronians on Earth!** \+ Tailgate exclaimed, still rattled by what was going on around him, watching as the dark blue-violet mech sunk his grip into either side of the Quality Control carrier's bullet-train front. The carrier's treads reversed immediately, and Dirt Drop, or so he had been called, dug his feet into the ground, pulling against the heavy, thickly armored vehicle as it tried in vain to escape, its engines roaring and treads grinding away bits of pavement in a cloud of dust and sparks.

+ **As did I,** \+ Sixshot noted. + **Perhaps we were incorrectly informed - and yet, there aren't any badges on any of them. No Autobot, no Decepticon, not even a sigil from the days of the castes or the Golden Age. Maybe these are just some kind of earth-based mechanical life-form. There are other races besides our**   **own.** +

That was true; some were smaller, some were larger - they'd met others on Hedonia, like the Ammonites and Terradores. Tailgate's sensor-focus returned to the fray going on in front of him. He still wanted to intervene, but he was second-guessing himself on which side to take.

 

...

_Fowler was not surprised by the looks of shock and concealed abhorrence on the Autobot faces across the table from him. If someone had told him that another species was cloning mindless human bodies for labor or for use as saddle animals, he'd probably react the same way. He only hoped that the revulsion in the Cybertronians he was speaking to would not be so great as to destroy the Autobot's quiet alliance with humanity for keeps._

_"Not all of us were on board with the idea," Jack added, arms crossed over his chest, expression serious. "But after New York City was overrun with Decepticons in short order, after seeing what Devastator was capable of . . . we got scared. Suddenly there was a whole universe out there that could wipe us out with casual ease. I guess we decided that we needed to protect ourselves with the strongest things we could find, which happened to be whatever Cybertronians left behind. The people here, with us now? We always saw you as friends. Fellow intelligent beings in the universe just trying to survive in peace." Jack looked down, his tone lowering. "Unfortunately, there are humans out there that see you as machines that aren't really living things, just parts and wires and fluids and bad programming. They hold Cybertronians in the same kind of contempt that most Decepticons did for anything made of flesh and bone."_

_Bumblebee was visibly struggling to keep himself emotionless as memories of Spike Witwicky, the Headmaster program, and MECH burst in on his though processes. He tried to think of all the good times with Raf to calm the tide of anger, disbelief and revulsion rising inside. Venting slowly, he reminded himself that fear and desperation can make even the best beings do the unspeakable._

_"Please tell me you copied me for your helicopters," Whirl cheerfully piped up. "I always wanted an army of zombie clones to do my bidding." Ultra Magnus grimaced harder. First Aid rubbed his hand across his optics._

_Cyclonus chose to ignore his temporary talking backpack and fixed his attentions on the small organic-based creatures in front of him. "Sparks," he said flatly, devoid of reaction. "Do these TransMechanoids have sparks?"_

_"No," Raf answered. "I don't think that's something we could ever make, no matter how much retroengineering we've done."_

_"Then they are not alive ," Cyclonus replied, calm and collected. "Machines made in our image. Nothing more."_

_"That's what we thought too," Colonel Fowler replied, frowning. "Until the Breakers started appearing."_

 

...

"Three minutes!" the repair truck alt-mode shouted to the others. "The carrier's radioed for the police!"

The vermillion female had avoided the carrier altogether, headed straight for the cricketoid, who was now almost covered in the swarmer drone units. Her struggles were weakening and the drones were starting to pull her faster towards the carrier, heedless of its embattled state. Arcs of blue-white electricity suddenly danced over the glossy black plating of the cricketoid as the swarmers tried to fry her motors. She screamed in agony.

+ **That... that sounded like**   ** _pain_ ,**\+ Tailgate pointed out to Sixshot, voice quavering.

+ **So it did,** \+ Sixshot answered, unmoved by the creature's plight.

+ **Aren't we going to DO something about this?** \+ the minibot's engine revved up and he inched forward on his wheels, increasingly agitated by the drama playing out in front of him.

+ **No,** \+ Sixshot replied. + **I want to watch this. I want to see what happens.** +

+ **You**   ** _monster_!** \+ Tailgate shouted in fury. + **I'm not going to just sit here and let them get reformatted when they're obviously fighting for their lives to escape it!** +

Plates on top of Sixshot's hood slid away and the nozzles of beam guns trained on the minibot-turned-trash disposal unit. + **You will stay HERE,** \+ Sixshot hissed in a voice like ice. + **Do not forget your position in all of this. If you move before I allow it, I'll escort you personally to the Pit. _Do you_**   _ **understand?**_ +

Tailgate ground his gears, seizing up the movement of his wheels as he wrestled with himself. He could try to outrun Sixshot's weapons to help these fellow mechanoids, but it was unlikely in his present form that he'd get far enough to help. He'd be snuffed in short order, and his desire to do the right thing would end in his death, and that would help no one. The only thing he could do was watch. Watch and hope that these strange Cybertronian-like robots would be able to make their escape.

The red and black female showed no fear. She thrust her hands into the electrified swarm, crushing drones in her hands, wrenching them free from the whimpering cricketoid whose servos were smoking and giving out. The female mechanoid was not immune to the electricity; she gritted her dental plates and bore through it forcing herself to keep going, keep tearing off drones, stamping them into scrap with her feet, and redirecting power to back-up actuators in her shoulders and wrists. "Gauge!" she shouted. "We might need a jump over here, cut faster!"

The repair-truck, now identified as 'Gauge', was using an emergency saw against the thick plating of the carrier. Its tread mechanisms were smoking and heating up, chunks of road flipping out behind it and to the sides, flicking against buildings and parked vehicles. The attack on the carrier was activating automated defenses along either side of the street. Humans had taken shelter immediately inside storefronts, which were dropping armored, bullet-proof plating down over doors and windows. Some vehicles were responding by extending defensive plating over their inert forms, transforming them into motionless, armadillo-like domes.

"I can't cut any faster Wildfire!" Gauge shouted back, naming the red female car-form, sparks flying from the saw in his hands as he drew it down over the side of the carrier's plating just in front of a welding seam.

"You've got a hole in it right?" Dirt Drop asked. "Just let me get my hand in it, I'll rip it open!"

Gauge snapped his gaze towards Dirt Drop in concern. "That armor is inch-thick carbon steel!" he shouted, shocked. "You'll tear off your arms!"

Dirt Drop grinned lazily, determination burning in his gold optics. "Yeah, but it'll get the prisoners out won't it? You know what we say!"

Gauge nodded grimly and the two spoke at the same time. "Better broken than blanked!" The repair-truck hopped down from the side of the carrier, running across the street to Wildfire and the cricketoid.

 

...

_"Breakers?" First Aid asked._

_"T-Mechs that started doing things outside of their programming," Colonel Fowler explained. "Sometimes it's just buggy software or a malfunction in some electronic system in the T-Mech. After some of them crashed or caused fatal accidents, laws were put into place to have their computer cores wiped clean and reinstalled every few weeks to make sure things are running smoothly. We couldn't afford to have a military T-mech the size of Ultra Magnus going haywire and shooting up a civilian area, you get the idea. The United Earth Defense Forces even installed Quality Control centers around the globe where T-Mechs could get repaired and blanked. Because of the risk T-Mechs cause when they get out of control, specially designed scanning and retrieval carriers were created to ensure that folks who get lazy or forgetful about maintenance don't end up making problems for everyone else."_

_"Over the last few years, however, we started getting reports from all over the globe that some T-Mechs were not just going haywire - they were acting on their own volition, like they'd just somehow developed free will on their own. I can't explain how it happened, but here at Skywatch, we've seen evidence that there are intelligent, free-willed Transmechanoids working together in cells all over the planet. The UN is tryin' its best to keep this all hush-hush and hide it from the public eye, but the numbers are growing every day. We've tried to make contact with them, but they just seem to appear and disappear without a trace, and they don't like people very much - not that I can blame them. We might be accidentally lobotomizing sentient beings through Quality Control."_

_"If that is true, and it became well known to the Galactic Council, Earth's position as a protected planet would be in jeopardy," Ultra Magnus stated thoughtfully. "I believe this kind of action is unintentional, but other races will not give humanity the benefit of the doubt. Without that protection, Earth would be open season for any less-than-moral civilization to exploit."_

_"Can you not just bring evidence of Transmechanoid intelligence to your government and end the core erasures?" Cyclonus asked._

_"Oh, right, like that's gonna make everything better," Whirl snorted, his head visible over Cyclonus' right shoulder. "They're already trying to cover this stuff up. You think they're just do a total one eighty and admit to braining a bunch of intelligent beings publicly? I thought you were smarter than that, Cykey ol' pal."_

_"Don't call me that," Cyclonus grumbled._

_"He's right," Jack said. "They don't want to admit that T-Mechs might be intelligent. It would throw our legal system into chaos, and it would halt production of Transmechanoids - maybe outlaw them altogether. Slavery isn't a popular concept in most of the world, but there are a lot of people that hate and fear Cybertronians because of what the war brought to our planet. The kind of upheaval that T-Mech independence might cause ... it would tear the fragile unity our nations have formed apart."_

_"So far TransMechanoids have been pretty peaceful, just freeing others from Quality Control patrols," Rafael continued, brows drawn together in concern, "but if something  pushes them too far, they might revolt."_

 

...

The sound of squealing, crumpling metal echoed through the street, bouncing off shielded buildings and into alleyways and sidestreets beyond as the armored QC carrier's structure gave way, peeling like the skin of an orange. Dirt Drop howled in herculean effort, his motors and internal structure pushed to its limits, threatening to buckle and tear. Sirens were wailing in the distance as the police began to close in.

The last of the drones over the cricketoid had been destroyed by Wildfire, who panted away internal heat, her paint charred black in erratic electrical burns across her frame. Gauge crouched next to her, assessing the weak movements of the T-Mech insect in front of them.

"Can you change form?" he asked the bug soothingly.

"No," she whimpered, limbs twitching. "Hurt. Hurt all over."

"She's losing syntholine," Gauge assessed. "We can save her if we get her out of here fast enough, but one of us is going to have to carry her. I don't dare try to drag her with my tow line, she doesn't have wheels and she won't survive rough treatment in her condition."

"I'll carry her," Wildfire stated, steeling herself to the danger ahead. "You and Dirt Drop take anyone in the carrier and split up, you know the drill."

"You're going to try to outrun the police on foot with a broken T-Mech?!" Gauge blurted out, incredulous.

"I can do this," she affirmed, rallying herself and trying to convince her comrade in turn. "Just get yourselves out of danger."

Gauge saw that he could not change her mind and gave in. There wasn't time left to argue. "Come home to us. Both of you," he urged quietly, as Wildfire carefully scooped the cricket into her arms, holding her like an oversized dog.

"We got a live one!" Dirt Drop announced a short distance away, lifting a smaller white, purple and gray mech out of the inside of the carrier. The prisoner's body was pockmarked with electrical burns - he'd struggled to escape but could not overcome the swarmers.

"Th-thank you, brother," the white and purple mech stammered, his voice raspy and weak. "I did n-not think to see a-another day."

The sirens were getting louder. The bright flash of blue and white up the street was getting brighter. Dirt Drop grinned, pleased to have rescued someone - anyone. In his mind even if something went wrong now, their raid would not have been in vain. "Thank me later. We gotta get out of here. Can you change shape?"

"I think so," the wounded mech said. "But I d-don't have enough fuel for a su-sustained chase."

"Gauge, hook him up!" Dirt Drop shouted, jumping down from the smoking, immobile wreck of the carrier, setting the purple mech down carefully on the street. Gauge quickly transformed, driving over to Dirt Drop and the rescued mech, extending a tow cable from a heavy winch a the back of his truck-bed. Dirt Drop turned with hook in hand to fit under the purple T-Mech's bumper when he gasped and nearly dropped the cable.

"He's a cop car!" the indigo SUV shouted in horror.

"P-please, I'm not a bait mech!" the police vehicle begged. "Don't you th-think w-we awaken too?"

"Hook him up!" Wildfire commanded. "We'll sort this out later but we are NOT leaving anyone behind, IS THAT CLEAR?"

"Sure, Wild," Dirt Drop muttered, blinking at the female robot's sudden intensity. He gingerly hooked up the cable to the bumper of the police vehicle as if terrified that it would grow a mouth and bite off his hands. Gauge rolled forward to test the connection, and when satisfied that it would not detach, and that their rescued police-mech was not in pain, revved his engine, speeding forward. "Let's go! Separate paths, meet up at the rendezvous point!" Dirt Drop transformed, his tires squealing as he shot forward, trying to catch up as quickly as he could. The police would be on top of them at any moment.

Wildfire turned and stared right at Sixshot and Tailgate.

"You two might wanna get your bumpers in gear too. Every last vehicle on this street is gonna be shipped of to Maintenance and core-wiped, so pretending to be a couple of dead batteries isn't going to get you out of trouble," she shouted to the two hidden Cybertronians.

"... You knew we weren't cars?" Tailgate questioned, shocked and sheepish.

"I could hear you two talking back and forth on shortband!" Wildfire exclaimed. "I don't know what the slag is going on between you two but the cops are almost here, so move your tailpipes!"

Sixshot transformed and rose up, pulling a blaster gun from from a compartment at his side. "I don't run from weaklings."

Wildfire gaped in horror. "No! No, what are you doing?!"

Precision laser fire cut into the engine of the lead police vehicle, hitting fuel components and detonating the engine. It slid out of control, other vehicles behind it crashing into it, some flipping end over end, some slamming into the burning wreck. Sixshot continued picking off vehicles one after another, the flames and wreckage rising as the Phase Sixer ended all oncoming pursuit with casual ease. Further explosions quickly drown out the sound of screeching tires and warped sirens, giving way to silence and the sound of roaring flames in the open air.

Sixshot holstered his gun. Tailgate transformed, staring at the carnage, his spark sinking, catching sight of small human-shaped corpses inside the debris.

 

*.*.*.*.*

"It would be like a Decepticon uprising all over again," First Aid murmured pensively. "All it would take is something or someone to trigger it."

"Sir!" a soldier burst in from the floor below. "There's a Breaker sighting, east end of Las Vegas!"

"That's just twenty miles from here!" Colonel Fowler exclaimed. "Do we have optics on the area?"

"Yessir!" the soldier shouted back. "Sir - I think the Autobots are gonna wanna see this too."

Ice knotted in the pit of Jack's stomach. "Patch it through to the holo-emitter up here."

The watermelon-sized silver dome in the center of the giant table lit up, multiple focusing arrays over its surface turning on, projecting a three-dimensional image in a circular mist between the Bots and human officers: The wreckage of dozens of police cars, a broken QC carrier, and three Cybertronian-esque figures standing between them in the street.

Cyclonus' spark nearly burst with emotion in his torso. "Tailgate!" he exclaimed. "He's alive!"

"He's with the Breakers?" Raf questioned, surprised by the scenario unfolding in front of them.

Jack's worst fears were confirmed in the moving, flickering light before his eyes. "And so is Sixshot."


	5. He's Got A Plan

"Do you have even the _slightest_ clue what you've just done?" Wildfire angrily demanded of Sixshot, still carrying the wounded cricket T-Mech in her arms.

"Yes, I eliminated the problem," Sixshot casually answered, holstering his weapon.

"No, you just made it about ten times **worse**. Now that you've got us marked as cop-killers they're going to send in the military mechs, and then we're ALL wrecked!" Wildfire shouted, marching up to the Decepticon elite and the minibot nearby. "We have always avoided killing humans because that is going to make it harder for everyone! If they get scared they're gonna take it out on us, not just as individuals but as a whole!"

"Humans won't bring devastating weapons or munitions into a densely populated area," Sixshot countered, staring down at the smaller female.

"Helloooo~! New York ring a bell?" Wildfire countered, dripping with sarcasm. "They did it once, they'll do it again. You just threw a rock at the hornet's nest and - oh why am I even bothering, I have to get her out of here, she's injured and I don't have time to argue!"

"Let them come. I want to test the mettle of these military units," Sixshot announced with smug arrogance.

"Have you lost your mind?!" Now Tailgate interjected, sharing Wildfire's incredulity. "You keep saying you're going to protect me but then you want a full on military strike that could be powerful enough decimate a city?! _What is wrong with you?!_ "

"You think I'm not capable of protecting you?" Sixshot sniffed, blowing off Tailgate's concern.

"We're not sticking around to find out," Wildfire stated firmly. She glanced over at Tailgate. "C'mon kid, you're with me. He can stand around and wait and to get cratered if he wants, but you don't have to."

Sixshot rounded on the female TransMechanoid half his size, stepping between her and Tailgate. " _He stays with me,_ " the Elite warned, drawing his handgun.

Holding the cricketoid carefully, Wildfire glared back up into Sixshot's optics, practically bristling in defiance. Tailgate couldn't bear to watch; she was suicidally brave (the emphasis on 'suicidally') and couldn't possibly know what Sixshot was capable of. The minibot was almost certain she wouldn't be standing for much longer if she continued to press the issue.

She pressed it. "I'm sorry, but I think that's **his** decision to make, not _yours_."

 _Think, Tailgate, think!_ He knew there had to be **something** he could do to defuse this situation before it got any worse. He could hear the power couplings inside Sixshot's weaponry beginning to power up and the red femme's legs shifting slightly, ready to run, her arms holding the leaking pseudo-Insecticon closer to her torso, and there would be only a split second where either of them would be paying enough attention to _him_ to register his protests.  A lesser mech would have used the opportunity to save himself, but Tailgate had decided to be an Autobot. That sort of thinking just wasn't an option anymore.

"Oh Sixshot, **sweetspark** , _please_ don't do anything to her because of me!" Tailgate pleaded in honeyed tones, trying to pour on the charm while simultaneously wanting to vomit. "I know you're worried about me getting lost on this planet without you and you just can't **bear** to be separated from me, but maybe this nice femme has a point." Tailgate sidled over to Sixshot and cuddled up against the giant multichanger's leg, dragging a finger over his shin guards. "You don't have to keep blowing things up to _impress_ me, we're already conjunx endura, you know." He flickered his optics coyly for effect.

 

Cue the sound effect of a window breaking for Sixshot, who seemed to have developed a tic under his right optic as his ability to concentrate shattered.

 

Wildfire side-glanced at him questioningly, uncertain how to react to the awkward display of affection. "Ooookay," she replied slowly and carefully. "Well then, if that's settled just... follow me." She frowned, serious again. "And hurry - I have an injured T-Mech and I have to take us on foot."

".....v-very well," Sixshot stammered, stone-still as he acquiesced to Wildfire's demand. His processor still looping with errors, he tried to shake Tailgate free from his leg.

Wildfire called out to them as she turned away from the two and began to run toward and past the broken carrier. "C'mon, _lovebirds_ , get the lead out. It won't be long before they send in the air units!" 

Sixshot snatched up Tailgate again and began to pursue the red TransMech, recovering from his shock.

"Talk to me in that manner again," the multichanger grumbled at his smaller hostage, "and I will  _ kill _ you."

Tailgate surrendered to being manhandled, practically melting in disgust and relief. "Don't worry," he morosely replied. "If that happens again, I'll do it  _ myself _ ." 

 

** ::I don't know what you did back there Wild, but the police band  _blew up_ ** **. They're calling for heavy duty back up from the airbase. You'd better get to the rendezvous point on the double.::** A brief, uneasy pause in Gauge's speech told Wildfire how dire the situation had become without need of explanation. **::We can't wait more than four minutes. Good luck.::**

“Stay on me, big guy, there are security cameras all over the place but they have their blind spots. We'll have to do some roof jumping but we should be able to go off-radar if we step careful!” the red transmech called back to the Decepticon Elite behind her.

“Just run. I'll take care of the cameras,” Sixshot stated, already at Wildfire's side.

“If you take care of them like you did the cops, I'll pass,” she retorted sharply back, leaping in mid-step to the second story roof of an upscale coffee shop on the right side of the street.

The Phase Sixer would have none of it. Ejecting a grenade from a weapon port on his right side, he took the device into his free hand, raising it over his head. Tailgate went wide-eyed and tried to shout at him to stop, but he ignored the minibot. Wildfire ground to a halt across the gravel-coated roof just in time to see the grenade get thrown onto the pavement.

**Boomf!** Clouds of thick black smoke exploded into the streets, choking out visibility in all directions. Sixshot leaped out of the smoke, rivulets of it streaming off his teal, violet and white mesh like black rain, Tailgate still firmly in his grasp, the little bot covering his eyes. Landing near Wildfire he somehow managed to convey smug satisfaction despite his faceplate. “I am capable of moving with stealth as well as power,” he chided the smaller female with a warrior's arrogant confidence.

“Should have done that in the first place,” Wildfire muttered behind her own faceplate. “Access shaft is six blocks south and two east. Think you can keep us covered until we hit the rendezvous point?”

“Protoform's play,” Sixshot quipped.

“stop the ride, I think I want to get off,” Tailgate whimpered faintly.

“One last loop and we're clear. Just try not to barf,” Wildfire consoled, reaching over to pat Tailgate on the shoulder, not caring the Sixshot was giving her the evil eye the moment she made contact with his hostage. Re-adjusting the cricket-bot in her arms, and ascertaining the state of the smaller female's injuries to make certain they hadn't worsened, Wild was off.

 

Sixshot observed her in motion, following closely behind, mimicking her steps so far as the structures of the buildings would allow. He was bigger and weightier; she was smaller and more agile, and thus could perch on thinner structures he could not hope to impact without crushing. In keeping step with her nimble movements, a sense of familiarity washed over him. She was moving with the same sort of calculated martial prowess as he himself. This Earth-borne weak-sparked drone carried herself as if she had been trained by Cybertronian metallikato master.

**Crunch!** Sixshot and Wildfyre dropped down into wide side-street alleyway, smashing recycling bins beneath their heavy metal feet. Waiting for them were the others, Gauge having stabilized the police unit, Dirt Drop by the ramp down into the access tunnels for the high-speed transports running underneath the city.

“Here and not a moment to spare!” Gauge said. “Our new friend is capable of transforming now, and Dirt Drop can carry the cricketoid.” The red and white medic's optic band shifted its glow to the miserable minibot held like a can of beer in Sixshot's hands. “Is he injured?” he questioned, not certain what to make of what he was seeing.

“Jealous boyfriend,” Wildfyre explained.

“Not going to ask,” Gauge said, shaking his head. He turned to Dirt Drop. “Open the gate! Move out!”

The big indigo sport utility vehicle transformed, sending the access code to the gate. The shutter rolled upwards and into the artificial light and sealed concrete of the underground highway access ramp. 

***.*.*.***

 

“They're headed underground!”

“Stay on them!”

 

Fowler gripped the back of the chair tighter as he glared, jaw clenched, at the tracking information on the oversized workstation monitor in front of him. Nearby, anxious military technicians were doing their best to keep up with the rogue Transmechs and their Cybertronian tag-a-longs. The tension in the room wound tighter with every moment, the Autobot guests in Hangar E pushed to the backburner in light of current events.

“Did you get any audio on that conversation between the breaker and Sixshot?” Jack questioned a middle-aged, dark-haired communications officer a few feet away.

“No,” the man replied with a disappointed grimace, as if the failure of the equipment was somehow his own. “But we have visuals up to the smoke bomb from the deception. Look here,” he said, pointing to a secondary video capture window that would allow rewind and playback. “The aggression is all the Decepticons. The Autobot and the Breaker didn't fire a shot. In fact, it looks as if they were trying to get Sixshot to stop shooting.”

Fowler's head snapped over towards the conversation as he stood up and marched over to Jack and the communications officer. “So the Breaker isn't engaging as a hostile?”

“Doesn't look like it,” Jack mused, watching the video feed. “Looks like she's angry at Sixshot for it.”

“ _Or_ she's angry she didn't get the first shot in,” Fowler countered, playing Devil's advocate. It earned him a disapproving glare from Jack; the older man held up his hands, trying to calm his adopted son's ire. “Hey, you know I don't want it to be that way either,” he said softly, “but we have to consider all the angles, good and bad. Right now we can't offer anything solid to prove that the Breaker isn't a Decepticon waiting to happen.”

Jack's expression relented, understanding, but still not liking the situation, as he glanced back over at the video feed. “Still, this is better than nothing.”

“Right,” Fowler agreed with a nod of his head, quickly snapping back into action. “You!” he exclaimed, pointing at the communications officer. “Agent Townsend, I want that video footage backed up and backed up again. It's all we have right now towards determining the Breakers' intentions.”

“On it, sir!” Townsend responded as Jack and Fowler turned from the command center, back towards the Autobots.

“If you guys have any idea what Sixshot wants, I'm all ears,” he asked.

Bumblebee vented, shaking his head negatively. “All we know is that he wanted us to follow him here. He wouldn't have taken Tailgate hostage otherwise.”

 

“Isn't it obvious?” Whirl blurted out. “He's a Decepticon Elite! Proud Ninja Warrior and all that scrap! He wants to go down in a blaze of glory!”

 

The others gave pause, the corner of Ultra Magnus' optic twitching as if he were repressing the need to bend Whirl into some kind of decorative centerpiece, but it was Cyclonus that spoke first.

“As broken as Whirl may be, I think he might be correct,” he conceded. “It suits what I have witnessed from his behavior and martial prowess.”

“If that's the case then it is absolutely imperative that we do NOT lose track of them. The last thing this planet needs is a repeat visit from a world-killing Decepticon bent on suicide-by-cop,” Fowler firmly stated.

A loud profanity got the attention of the room. “They did it _again_!” It was Agent Townsend. “As soon as they hit the underground transit tunnels they just _vanished_!”

Uncharacteristically, Fowler repeated the curse as he turned sharply back to the video monitors. The heads of the Autobots turned to Raf and Jack, looking for an explanation.

“The Breaker cell in Las Vegas seem to have some kind of cloaking mechanism, or some way to jam scanning devices,” Jack said, getting the hint passed via confused Cybertronian faces. “Every time they go underground we lose them. We've been trying to figure out how they've been doing it for months.”

“What about Sixshot?” Raf asked as he slid down the railing of an upper-level staircase, rushing down to the control center, white labcoat fanning out behind him as he ran. “He's a Decepticon, we should be able to track his spark frequency--” 

“ _Ix-nay on the ark-spay stuff,"_  Fowler interrupted in a harsh whisper as Raf skidded to a stop in his high tops in front of the colonel. “ _That information is on a need-to-know-basis._ ” 

“ _And Bee doesn't need to know?_ ” Raf quietly protested, frowning.

“Negative Agent Esquivez,” Townsend interjected, trying to keep the conversation going smoothly for Fowler's benefit. “Sixshot's gone too. Either the Breakers are cloaking him or he has some kind of on-board stealth technology.”

“He calls himself a 'ninja',” Fowler replied as Rafael continued to glare at him. “Stealth's probably his em-oh.” 

 **+Colonel Fowler is acting suspiciously,+** Ultra Magnus privately radioed Bumblebee. **+I don't like it.+**

 **+Fifteen years is a long time on Earth. Maybe he has his reasons,+** Bumblebee responded, trying to reassure himself more than Magnus.

 **+I would advise caution nonetheless. Our standing with the humans is no longer as good as it used to be,+** Magnus stated.

 Bumblebee stood up, looking at Fowler, Raf and Jack on the mezzanine in front of him. “Is there anything we can do?” he asked, trying to get their attention – and if he was lucky – some idea of how tense Human-Cybertronian relations had become.

Jack sighed heavily and shook his head. He could empathize with both Autobot and Earth forces. He tried to distance himself from taking a strong position either way. Part of him ached to know how Arcee was getting along without him. At that moment, he missed her sorely. “Not right now. If you went out into the city to find them you'd be recognized immediately. We can try to quarantine Sixshot's arrival to kept word from getting out, but it would be a bad idea for Autobot _and_ Decepticon emblems to be seen on Earth at the same time. All hell would break loose.”

“Well we can't just let let Sixshot stay on Earth, especially not with the situation you've described with these TransMechanoids,” Bumblebee protested. “I won't matter what your planet's leaders think if they're involved in a full-scale uprising with a Decepticon Elite leading it!”

“Sixshot will likely make an appearance in public again. We can capture and extract him then,” Ultra Magnus offered coolly to the young Autobot commander.

“By that time it might be too late for humanity!” Fowler protested.

 

“ **HEY YOU GUYS** ,” Whirl shouted at the maximum level of his vocoder.

 

Cyclonus' optics went wide at the noise and he covered his audioceptors, clenching his teeth in supreme irritation. Whirl waved his arms wildy to make certain all eyes were on him. “YOU GUYS. HEY. _Hey_. Listen: Ultra Magnus and Bumblebee were here before, right? Humanity knows what they look like. Probably have cool action figures and posters and scrap for their kids, too – they're famous. BUT!” He leaned over Cyclonus' shoulders and gently clamped onto the purple mech's wrists and slooowly pulled them away from Cylonus' ears. (“You might wanna listen to this if you wanna get your boyfriend back in one piece, ol' buddy ol' pal,” he whispered to the other mech, making Cyclonus bristle with barely contained rage.) “But! Cykey and me are complete and totally unknowns to humanity. I'd suggest First Aid too, but since his t-cog is _el-dead-o_ , he's gonna be kinda completely useless for my brilliant plan.”

 

“And what _is_ that brilliant plan,” Bumblebee deadpanned, expression flat.

"Cyclonus and I strip off our badges, transform, scan a couple of Earth modes and try to infiltrate the Breakers. Sure, Sixshot will recognize us but Cyclonus and I are made of planet-shattering epic when we work together in battle. Me, a completely awesome former Wrecker with this guy using his giant sword? No chance we can lose! I mean, Cyclonus knows some of that fruity martial arts stuff, he should be able to out-ninja Sixshot,” Whirl explained confidently.

 

“... Is he serious?” Fowler asked.

 “He's serious,” Magnus and Bee answered in unison.

 

First Aid uneasily spoke up, reticent to participate in the arguments; he was already uncomfortable with the level of conflict and uncertain of what he could do to help. “I hate to point this out, Whirl, but you're as unable to transform as I am. You're missing half your body.”

“Ha! Like that's going to stop me. They said that these TransMechanoids are basically sparkless knock-offs of Cybertronians, right? Well, _Ratchet Junior_ , get some spare parts and fix me!” Whirl rebutted with jovial ease.

 First Aid spluttered at being called 'Ratchet Junior', it was high praise from Whirl, if a bit backhanded in delivery. “W-w-well I suppose I could...” he mumbled in response.

 “It's not actually a bad plan,” Raf commented, thinking the situation over. “First Aid, I know a lot about Transmechaniod technology – I could help you repair Whirl.”

“So we're actually going with this?” Jack asked, looking among the leaders present.

Bumblebee turned and looked over his shoulder at Cyclonus. “Are you in?”

Cylonus looked back, determination in his eyes. The opportunity to rescue Tailgate _and_ punish his kidnapper? He could tolerate Whirl. He could tolerate **two** Whirls. Mentally, he made no guarantees that Sixshot would be coming back in one piece. Not if he had the chance to do what was necessary – what was _right_ – and get rid of the danger the multichanger presented to everyone. “I will do it,” he agreed with a nod of his head.

“That's the spirit!” Whirl cheered. “You and me, sneaking in like a couple of Wreckers, killing for the greater good! I'll be just like ol' times!”

 “I am not a Wrecker,” Cyclonus firmly reminded Whirl.

 

“I'm coming too,” Bumblebee announced. He caught looks of surprise from the other Autobots, disappointment in Whirl and Cyclonus, and concern on the face of Jack, Fowler and Raf. He held up his hands to shoulder level, asking in a gesture for the chance to explain. “I know, I know, I have a familiar profile – but I've changed colors to escape detection before, and I can scan a new Earth mode.”

 “Sir, with all do respect, you are the Prime, and you are too valuable to lose fighting Sixshot,” Ultra Magnus countered.

 “That never stopped Optimus,” Bee said firmly. “I _need_ to go. Sixshot is a handful, he's my responsibility and we're bringing him home _alive_ for trial. No offense, Whirl.”

 Whirl leaned back in his 'chair' and put his arms behind his head. “None taken. I _am_ a dangerously unpredictable sociopath after all.” It was hard to tell if he was being sarcastic or honest.

 “I will accompany you then,” Ultra Magnus said, rising from his chair.

 “No,” Bee denied. “I need you here to help First Aid and Raf. If something goes wrong you are the only Bot strong enough to deal with Sixshot one-on-one, and if worst comes to worse... you know the plan.”

Ultra Magnus sank back down into his chair. If worse came to worse, he would have to take on the whole of Autobot command. It wasn't something he relished, but there were few other options, and he chafed to think of what would become of the Autobots, or all of Cybertron, under Prowl's leadership. “I understand, sir.”

 Bumblebee turned to face Fowler, Jack and Raf. “Looks like things are settled on my end. Is humanity willing to play ball with us on this?”

  _Is_ humanity _willing to play ball with us_ , Jack thought. _Not are_ you _willing to play ball._ He couldn't help but notice the cool distance those words put between Autobot and Section E. Years ago they were as tightly knit as family. Now emergency measures and negotiation tables were the only times they spoke.

 “If we can keep it hush-hush, it's worth a shot,” Fowler agreed. He looked to the red and white, face-plated medic. “First Aid, was it? You tell me what we need to fix One-Eye over there, and we'll get it for you.”

 “I will ignore your lack of sensitivity to my condition,” Whirl curtly added, mock-offended.

 “A pity the rest of you is not so easily ignored,” Cyclonus muttered, folding his hands in front of him as Whirl reclined along his back.

 First Aid shook his head at the exchange, turning his attention to Fowler with a nod of affirmation. “Thank you, Colonel Fowler. I'm ready to work as soon as possible.”

 “Can we put him into stasis lock now, then?” Cyclonus asked hopefully. 

 Fowler smiled to himself. _Just like old times_ , he thought. _I just wish it were as easy to help them now as it was then._

 “I guess this means Section E is active again,” Jack said, looking between Fowler and Raf. “And if Section E is active again, we need to contact the third member of our team.”

 “I'll put out the official order. I don't think I could survive the next family get together if I didn't,” Fowler chuckled to his adopted son. Raf's eyes were locked on Bumblebee, who grinned at the thought of working with his closest human friend once more.

 

Just like old times indeed.


	6. Meet Your Master

Tailgate was once again eating his knees.

He whimpered to himself, half out of frustration, half out of that sinking feeling he got whenever he felt he was in over his head. This situation certainly qualified in a physical way; they were now at least five miles beneath the planet's surface, and continuing ever deeper.

Looking out Sixshot's window he could see the lights of the transmechanoids traveling alongside the multichanger, flanking them on either side, with the red female supercar in front, and the bulky indigo SUV behind them. They'd used the high-speed underground transit tunnels for several miles, veered off into an access shaft, and then passed through a gateway in a false wall of what looked like solid rock. Now they were in a lightless shaft plunging ever downward.

"Could have driven myself, you know," Tailgate grumbled quietly, folding his arms over his chest, staring out the windshield, the interior lights of Sixshot's cockpit casting a red-orange glow over the minibot's white frame.

"Unacceptable," Sixshot countered authoritatively, having heard the minibot speak over the road noise of engines and tires over dirt and rock. "You're best kept here. Your new alt-mode is too slow and clunky to keep up with myself and these primitives."

"If only I could have picked a faster alt-form. It's like my choices were  _unfairly limited_  or something," Tailgate snorted.

"You are remarkably flippant, considering your situation," Sixshot replied.

"Well, you were going to kill us all back there on the ship. I figure that you're still going to kill me in the near future," Tailgate snipped irritably. "So I don't feel particularly inclined to be nice to you."

"I'm not going to kill you," Sixshot said calmly.

Tailgate's optics flickered like a startled blink. "Come again?"

"I said, I'm not going to kill you," the multichanger reiterated. "I am here for a challenge, and for death, preferably on my own terms. You are merely a means to that end. Until that opportunity arises, I will keep you alive, by any means necessary."

The minibot's arms dropped to his side, taking in this bit of information. His pity for Sixshot returned full-strength, and he felt sorry that he'd been snappish. Not that being crammed into a cockpit designed for something much smaller than he was did anything for his mood, but his conscience was now nagging at him for being petty and making snap judgments against the larger mech.

Tailgate turned to stare out the passenger side window, looking at the light shining from the headlights of a repair truck – the transmech medic, Gauge, outside. Inside the closed doors of that truck's rear half was the injured cricket robot. He wondered how she was fairing. If she was afraid of what was going on. If she had any idea of where she was going, and if she was being taken somewhere against her will, as he was. She was probably happier. Coming with others of her kind to wherever they were going was no doubt a better fate than being 'maintained' at quality control.

...

 _::So,::_  Gauge radioed as he pulled forward to drive alongside Wildfire,  _::What do you make of our two newcomers?::_

 _::Which ones?::_  Wild questioned, her high-beams streaming down along the winding trail of dull gray-brown rock, cutting a trail through darkness ahead of them.

 _::The ones that are obviously not transmechanoids,::_  Gauge sniffed, scanning over his left side suspiciously, tilting his rearview mirror to catch Sixshot's reflection.

 _::And you're completely sure of that?::_  Wildfyre questioned, surprised and curious at the same time.

 _::Very,::_  Gauge affirmed. He narrowed his bandwidth, encrypting the transmission to a private channel, an electronic conversation barely above a whisper.  _::They're running on a type of energy source I've only encountered once before. To further place them in the category of 'alien outsider', they have a quantum irregularity in the center of their void chamber.::_

Wildfyre's engine hitched. There was only one other being on the planet she could think of whose internal scans matched Gauge's description, and if his sensors were not misaligned, she would have no choice but to take these strangers directly to him.

 _::The Elder is going to want to know about what happened with these two anyways,::_ she stated with finality, making the call as the group's leader.  _::Thanks to the big one, we're all wheels deep in manure now.::_

 _::Are you certain its safe to let them near him?::_  Gauge questioned, concerned.  _::The small one certainly, but that violent titan is another matter altogether.::_

 _::I can handle him, if the Elder doesn't do it first,::_  Wildfire reassured her companion as the road changed into smooth metal beneath them.

The darkness evaporated into an eerie aqua-blue glow as sensors adjusted to the sudden influx of light streaming down from somewhere above. Tailgate fairly pressed his faceplate to the driver's side window, wide-eyed at what he was seeing.

In an enormous dome-shaped cavern sat a small city. Nearly everything in the cavern was metal, from the dozens of bridges spanning deep chasms near the edge of the city's platform, to the ground, to the walls, to the city itself. It was nested atop a peninsula of dark gray metal, surrounded on three sides by deep pits, and spiderwebbed with bridges leading out towards the edges of the dome, no doubt into other access tunnels like the ones they had just passed through. Blue-white light shone down from recesses the ceiling, and the city itself was alive with motion and light. Tailgate thought it looked remarkably like some Cybertronian city back home.

"How is this even possible?" Tailgate asked quietly, overawed, and a little unnerved by the similarity to home.

"Did I not say that this planet was the body of Unicron?" Sixshot answered.

At that, Tailgate began to panic. "Primus spare my spark! Primus spare my spark-!"

"Will you stop that!?," Sixshot barked. "The Anti-Spark is no longer within this vessel. This is little more than the chaos-bringer's empty husk. You have nothing to fear."

"How can we be sure that he can't access his body remotely?" Tailgate asked, twitching like a rabbit that had just seen the shadow of a hawk pass overhead. "Everything's lit up like he's still alive!"

"If he were alive that city would not exist. His internal defenses would have eradicated it and its inhabitants long before it could have been built," Sixshot grumpily reassured. "He certainly would have sensed our sparks and reacted by now if he had any control over this husk."

Tailgate continued unintentionally playing devil's advocate. "What if the city is there because he just can't sense these guys?"

That question gave Sixshot pause. He could not sense a spark in any of them. Tailgate's supposition was entirely logical; if Unicron could not sense a spark in them, he may not have attacked at all . . .

. . . but there was the matter of that city. Such a build up of debris over his internal components would have been removed by his body's maintenance systems. No, his original assertion was right. If Unicron were alive and still in control of his material form in any way, his internals would have been pristine of such an artificially made 'tumor'. His thoughts turned back to his cowering hostage.

"Well?" he asked.

"Well what?" Tailgate questioned back quickly.

"Are we being attacked?"

Tailgate peeked out the windows once more. " . . . No?"

"There is your answer," Sixshot stated curtly, exhausted with the conversation. "We are safe. Now stop worrying over nothing."

 _Worrying over nothing,_  Tailgate snorted mentally, sitting back in his seat as much as was possible.  _Easy for you to say mister point-one-percenter. You're not a minibot inside the struts of the cosmic embodiment of evil._

. . .

The group rolled to a stop at the edge of the city, the TransMechs transforming into standing, bipedal humanoid forms. Sixshot followed suit, ejecting Tailgate out of his cockpit and into his waiting hands, holding him carefully, so as not to give away their status as kidnapper and hostage.

"Welcome to Zero Point, gentlemen," Wildfire said, turning to face them all. "You newcomers are Breakers now."

"All of us?" Sixshot asked, feigning an innocent curiosity that was jarringly out of place with his previous display of violence.

"Almost all of you," Wildfyre corrected, optics on the two Cybertronians. "You two are here on good behavior. The moment you start shooting things like you did up top," she added, pointing an index finger at Sixshot, "you're getting tossed out on your tailpipes. Or worse." She lowered her hand, placing it on her hip. "There is  _no fighting in Zero Point_ ," she stressed, looking at all of them, making certain the cricketoid in Gauge's arms and the police bot understood the ground rules. "We have ways of settling our differences that don't involve lost of life and limb. We have children present and I don't need them picking up bad surface behavior from any of you. Is that understood?"

"Children?" Tailgate and Sixshot asked in unison, sounding surprised.

Wildfire gave them a puzzled look. "Yes,  _children_. What, did you both work on some kind of isolated military base?"

"YesNo," Tailgate and Sixshot answered in unison. The others around them chuckled.

Gauge walked towards Wildfire, stopping at her side. "If you're still sure you can handle things here, I'm going to take the newcomers to the emergence center. The little one needs full repairs and our other new friend needs a full evaluation for placement."

"Yeah, I'll vouch for them," Wild nodded. "We're headed straight to the Elder anyways, and if I can't handle them,  _he_  certainly can."

Gauge nodded, pausing for just a moment to give his field commander one last glance her way, concern in his eyes. "Be careful." Wild nodded briefly, smiling behind her faceplate, watching the medic depart, hurrying on his way.

The ground shook slightly from Dirt Drop's steps, his whole body heavy and ponderously strong. He patted the police bot on the shoulder, getting the other's attention; the police bot seemed to be lost in his own sense of awe, taking in the sight of Zero Point and all the other free bots going about their lives within it. "C'mon kiddo," the giant rumbled gently. "The view's better inside, trust me."

The police bot laughed. "Well then what are we waiting for? I want to see it all," he grinned, following Dirt Drop onto the main street of the city.

Sixshot watched them go, studying the structures of the city. Like Tailgate, he could not help but feel a pang of homesickness; it looked a great deal like a smaller polity during the time before the war - some Praxus or Rodion hidden away on an alien world. Flying bots bustled like birds along the upper echelons of the city, eerily seeker-shaped in their designs, while grounders traveled through the streets on feet, tracks or wheels. He could hear music in the distance, savage and primitive - nothing like the ballads and operas of the Golden Age - but filled with a kind of raw vitality that had long been sucked from Cybertron's collective soul. Conflicting emotions assaulted his spark. He lingered, staring out over the city, silent in thought.

"So, you gonna carry your bride over the threshold everywhere you go?" Wildfire queried, trying to get Sixshot's distracted attention.

That did it. Tailgate was unceremoniously dropped to the ground.

"Ow," the minibot complained, rubbing his backside, checking for dings and scrapes. "Thanks a  _lot_."

"That's some way to treat your  _conjunx endura_ ," Wildfire mused, crossing her arms, the alien term rolling off her vocoder effortlessly.

"You don't even know what that means," Sixshot sneered, turning away.

"Oh yes I do," Wildfire countered, stepping closer, offering a hand to Tailgate to help him up. "I also know that you're both Cybertronians, and I know who and what you are,  _Sixshot_."

Tailgate flinched instinctively even as accepted Wildfire's help up. The multichanger focus was instantly laser sharp on the smaller female.

"He's an Autobot and you're a Decepticon, and from how close you've been keeping him, I'm going to take a wild stab and say he's your hostage, not your mate," Wildfire continued fearlessly.

"Perceptive," Sixshot replied, optics narrowing, an uneasy tension like a storm brewing between them. "And how did you come by this information? Do the others know, hiding it from me, or is it only you?"

"You don't have to answer that!" Tailgate interrupted, desperate to try to keep Sixshot from tearing Wildfire to pieces, as he was absolutely  **certain**  he'd be witnessing it in short order if this line of questioning continued.

"It's fine," Wildfire reassured the minibot, releasing his hand and standing up straight, staring directly into Sixshot's optics. "I'm the only one that knows apart from the Elder, and that's because I'm one of the oldest here. Old enough to remember your name and how much the humanity had suffered because of Decepticon attacks."

Sixshot barked a short, harsh laugh. "If you know what I am capable of, then you should be thanking whatever gods you sparkless primitives worship that I have restrained myself from punishing your collective insolence."

Tailgate covered his optics. "Oh Primus, he's monologuing..." he whimpered softly into his hands.

"I don't have anything to fear from you. If I couldn't stop you, the Elder could with ease," Wildfire declared, stiffening her back and shoulders.

Sixshot roared with laughter. "And who is this great and powerful elder that could stop the greatest warrior Elite the Decepticon army ever produced?"

"Master Yoketron," Wildfire answered firmly.

Sixshot's laughter died in his throat.

Tailgate peeked out from between his fingers. " . . . Did somebody die?"

"Take me to see him," Sixshot demanded of Wildfire with anxious urgency. "Take me to see him  _now._ " Suddenly it began to make sense - this female's movements, the knowledge of Cybertronian customs and the look of the city - it was all because of Yoketron. It was all because of his old sensei.

"Master Yoketron will only see you if you are worthy," Wildfire said. "I'll take you to the dojo and make the request. I'm fairly certain the Autobot will have no trouble being accepted -"

"He can do whatever he likes," Sixshot snapped impatiently. "Just get me to Yoketron."

"Wait what?!" Tailgate stammered, staring in shock at Sixshot. "I thought I was your prisoner - now you're just going to toss me aside like an empty bottle of high-grade?"

"I no longer have need of you, Autobot. You're free to go," Sixshot said hurriedly, brushing the minibot aside, his entire focus on his old sensei as he tried to stare into the city's streets to see any sign of the dojo for himself.

"Hmph. So much for  _that_  relationship," Tailgate retorted under his breath.

"Follow me, both of you," Wildfire said. "I'll take you to where you need to go."

*.*.*.*.*

"Sixshot. One of my finest students ... and one of my greatest disappointments." The old bot scowled. "I did not train you just so that you could put your talents to use causing death and chaos across the universe. So many settled, inhabited worlds brought to  _rust_  at your hands ... and ultimately, therefore, at  **mine.** "

Sixshot remained somber, still respectful of his old sensei, the words stinging him more than he imagined they ever would. He looked down at the floor.

"Still," Yoketron relented, thoughtful as he gazed upon his larger student, "I understand that a member of Megatron's Phase Six program has had some of his freedoms stripped from him. I know about the virus, Sixshot, and what was done to you to make you what you are now, and as you no doubt have many questions for me, which will be answered in good time, I have a question for you:"

"Why did you allow yourself to be stripped of your freedom?"

The question settled heavily in the open space of the room. Sixshot took a moment to compose the answer in his mind before activating his vocoder to speak.

"It had already been stripped by the caste system, Master Yoketron," Sixshot stated firmly. "I paid the price I felt I needed to pay, in order to try to buy freedom for us all."

"As did many others," Yoketron agreed with a saddened, accepting finality in his tone. He poured a cup of engex for Sixshot, setting it on the table in front of his student, inviting him to sit. "Functionism was indeed a great evil. It repressed so many for so long that, when the pressure of the caste system had become too great for society to bear, it exploded, and caught many worlds in the crossfire - including this one."

Sixshot picked up the engex, sitting at the table and removing his faceplate to drink, as his master continued to speak. "I believe your return to this planet is predestined. Chaos gathers chaos, and you will never have the peace that you have been searching for until you finally accept what I told you those millions of years ago."

The multichanger scoffed. "I came here to find a challenge worthy of me, not to find  _peace_."

"You chase death," Yoketron commented gently, cutting through his student's bravado with the ease of a well-honed blade, "and what is death but the eternal peace of nothingness?"

Sixshot slammed the cup down on the table, rising and turning his back to Yoketron; the older Cybertronian did not so much as flinch, familiar enough with storming emotions and wounded sparks that he no longer reacted to any such outburst with surprise.

"You wanted revenge, and dressed it in the nobility of a cause," Yoketron continued, unrelenting. "The moment of revenge has long since passed, and all that came of the anger and bitterness of the cause you espoused was suffering beyond measure, a bloody path carved behind you, and ashes in your mouth rather than the victory and honor you craved." The elder mech poured himself a cup of engex, taking a moment to reflect over its softly glowing surface. "There is still a way for you to find what you are searching for, Sixshot. I have taken on a new student. She will need your assistance as a mentor."

The larger bot turned back towards his sensei, affixing his faceplate so as to hide his contempt for the idea and the student in question. "You waste your time with one of these  _lower_  creatures?" he sneered.

"Yes, I appear to make a habit of it," Yoketron pointedly countered, unhurried as he took a sip of his drink.

Sixshot grunted. For all the pomp and celebration of a point one percenter's sparking, the fate of the discovered was rarely the same as the discoverer. Sixshot was a prize jewel in the crown of a Prime's guard, and every bit as much of an object as a gemstone. Like a rare and dangerous beast in a menagerie, he had been marked and sent off for examinations, tests, training and a life comparable to that of a nuclear bomb - a threat waved around in conversation among senators and cronies, kept safely locked away from everyone else.

Yoketron had been regarded as the foremost teacher of martial arts, an ancient warrior who had risen from the ranks of Cybertronian slaves to help free the planet from the Quintessons during the Age of Wrath. Few Cybertronians were still alive that remembered those days, and to most, Yoketron was simply very old, and very skilled. He had stopped counting his age long ago. It simply wasn't worth the effort once one could mark the passing of ages rather than years.

The old warrior had been given the task of training Sixshot, among other potential elites. This had once been a source of great joy to him, molding the finest and fittest raw sparks into the best of the Primal Vanguard, a force for the defense of their homeworld against other potential invaders and usurpers. He had taught them the greatest virtues tradition and belief could hand down: Self-control. Generosity. Mercy. Courage. Self-sacrifice. Humility. How to find satisfaction no matter one's circumstances and means, but how to strive to achieve greater and better things at the same time. The Golden Age had indeed been the peak of Cybertronian civilization, and deep in his spark, he knew that once the summit had been reached, there would only be a downhill slide back to the bottom.

So it had begun with functionism, with the caste system. It was a marvelous idea, wondrous theory intended to give order and meaning to the seemingly random events of the spark waves: A pulse from the Well of Allsparks igniting new life out of natrous metals in what were called 'hot spots'. Cybertronians mined from these areas could become anything - miners, data storage, tanks, jets, construction vehicles, even tools - but there seemed to be no rhyme or reason as to why, and in what numbers. Not, it would seem, until those with delusions of grandeur decided to impose their own concept of order on the process, cloaking it in religious terms, and using the names of the gods to coerce compliance with their ideology.

Now it was no longer just a moment of celebration and joy, of welcoming new life into the world; it was a time of auspice and portent, of guildmasters consulting their charts and reading signs in the bottoms of their energon bowls from the patterns of the solids left behind. Now it was the  _will of Primus_  being expressed in what these new lives could do. Were there more miners? Primus willed construction. Were there more scientists? Primus willed research. Were there soldiers? Primus willed  _war_.

Now those who had enjoyed happier lives were relegated to lives lower than slavery due simply to how many of them made up the population. The rare, the special, the unique - they were the only ones fit to rule, and the Primal Vanguard that had once been the guardians of Cybertron's safety soon transformed into a boot against the necks of those who would not submit. It was logical to order society for better performance. Rational, and within the will of the creator. Why should anyone fight against it?

The subtle truth that eluded so many was that the lofty guild masters, who decided which Cybertronians were to be assigned to what caste and trade until the time their sparks expired, were the true masters of the world. A tank could become a miner, or it could become a general. If Primus were expressing his will through the number of alt-modes being made and the jobs being assigned, then it had been the Guildmasters who were twisting it to fit their whims, engineering society according to their own ultimate plans.

Yoketron had seen through thin veneer of order and reason to the manipulation behind it, but he had only been one mech against billions. Revenge, upheaval - these were not his way. He had taught his students to find contentment and peace even in the face of prolonged adversity; he could do no less than to follow his own strictures. Instead, he had prepared his students - the greatest warriors of the Golden Age and beyond - to hold fast to honor and truth, to respect life, and to remember that they only thing they had a right to change was  **themselves**.

...

 _"Since the time of the Age of Wrath, there has been a saying among us, 'Freedom is the right of all sentient beings'," Yoketron said as he addressed a new group of students brought to him by the Guild. "It is a noble sentiment, and one that has great merit: Freedom is a precious gift that brings many benefits." The old mech put his arms behind his back and stood tall. "But it is_ not _a right. Those of us here know all too well that those words ring hollow for us. Our lots have been decided for us by others. Freedom is something we must now be_ strong _enough, or_ lucky _enough, to earn. Think deeply on that phrase, my students: Freedom is the right of all sentient beings. If freedom is a right, then all peoples may demand it - but from whom? Who would think themselves so high above all others as to be the gods that entire species may cry out to for salvation? Who would be so perfect as to know for certain what is sentient, what is not? Why is life that is not sentient undeserving of freedom?"_

_There was a look of surprise that swept over the faces of those who knelt at Yoketron's feet as they drank in those words, taking apart the hidden interpretation behind the mantra. Soft murmuring rustled the dojo like the flapping wings of a nervous bird._

_"Do you see now, the iron fist behind such a velvet glove? Do not be taken in by noble sentiment, lofty platitudes or "just" causes, my students. I will tell you the great truth that even the Primes will not speak: The only change you have a right to effect is change on_ yourself _._ _ **You**_ _are the only true master of your own fate, of your own mind, of your own will, of your own thoughts. We are no gods, we Cybertronians, no matter how old we become, or how powerful we may be. Not one of us can rekindle a spark once it is extinguished._

 _"Freedom is_ not _our right, my students," Yoketron said gently, seriously. "Freedom is a gift, or a privilege we may earn. I believe that one day we will abandon the notion of ratioism and functionism - not through revolution or slaughter, which only breeds more revenge and slaughter - but when enough of us decide that the only mastery we seek is mastery over_ ourselves _. Do not be fooled: You will all learn how to fight, and you will learn how to fight in ways you never imagined, but I will not teach you how to overwhelm and subdue others for the purposes of oppression. No, I will teach you how to resist_ everything _. When you are finished, you will come as close to putting on godhood as Cybertronians are allowed, and like Primus, you will understand that the greatest possible use of such power is in sustaining the lives of others."_

...

"Your training was never completed, Sixshot. The revolution came before the last phase of your apprenticeship could be assigned," Yoketron continued. "You were turned lose because your combat training was finished, and that was good enough for Zeta, but you are still incomplete." The old mech turned his optics up to the taller multichanger. "The war is over. You can finish what you started."

This would mean taking on a student of his own to begin to train, to complete and test his education by passing it on to another. "Which one of them is it?" Sixshot asked gruffly, relenting. After four million years, the old mech still commanded complete respect and deference from his students. The former Decepticon could not help but quietly admire that even  _he_  could be brought to heel so quickly.

"Wildfire," Yoketron replied with a note of amusement.

"That one?!" Sixshot bellowed, incredulous. "You would saddle me with a sparkless femme?!"

Yoketron casually sipped his engex. "My reasons are my own," he calmly responded.

Sixshot growled behind his faceplate. He could not work with such a creature. To be burdened with something without a spark, created by base organic creatures rather than having been forged from the  _sentio metallico_  of Cybertron or its moons - unthinkable. Unbearable! It was bad enough with the minibot hostage, now to have a helpless, sparkless native as his charge -

"If you do not feel you can handle such a task, then you may return to your ways as you please," Yoketron said, breaking into Sixshot thoughts as if reading them.

"... Fine," the elite relented. "What am I to teach her?"

"What I taught you: Duty. Honor. Discipline. Truth. Generosity. Respect for life. Self-control," Yoketron listed, pausing as if lingering over the list and measuring Sixshot's capacity to educate a Breaker on things the multichanger had long since forgotten. He took another sip from his cup and set it empty on the table in front of him. "If you are in need of assistance, advice, or perhaps a refresher course on these things, I am always available."

Sixshot smirked beneath his face mask. "Very well. I accept your challenge, Master Yoketron. I will show her what I've learned."

"You are not allowed to kill her," Yoketron added nonchalantly.

Sixshot grunted, optics narrowing behind his visor. "I am not  _that_  far fallen, sensei."

"We shall see, Sixshot," the older mech answered. "We shall see."


	7. The Child

Wildfire and Tailgate walked down the steps of the dojo, giving Sixshot time to speak with Master Yoketron.

"So," Wildfire asked the smaller white mech at her side, "Are you  _really_  his conjunx endura?"

"Oh Primus  _no_ ," Tailgate spluttered, rubbing his shoulders and shivering briefly as if cold. "I don't think he's really a 'let someone get within grabbing range and not kill them' kind of guy."

The cherry red female t-mech chuckled as they reached the bottom step together. "Yeah, I was going to say, I think you can do better." She stopped and looked over at Tailgate. "That was pretty clever of you to distract Sixshot like you did. Brave, too."

Tailgate rubbed the back of his neck, somehow looking sheepish with those massive blue optics. "Ha ha! Well, I guess if you say so! It was the only thing I could think of at the time." He then tapped his pointer fingers together and looked aside, clearing his vocoder and adding under his breath in a rapid mumble, "neeeever gonna do that again. Not  _ever._ "

"Now that you've been "dumped", as it were, what do you want to do?" Wildfire asked next.

Tailgate paused. That really was the question, wasn't it? Now that Sixshot's grand hostage plans were tossed aside as quickly as he was, that left the minibot to his own devices. It also left him stranded on Earth.

He wasn't sure if anyone knew if he was alive, back on the ship; they'd be looking for Sixshot as the only possible survivor of the jettisoned cargo bay. He could try to contact the crew, but not this far underground - the signal would never reach the surface - and not when he was with these 'Breakers'. It might cause 'Quality Control' to come after them like before. For all intents and purposes, he was marooned on Earth, and he would have to make the best of it until he could find some way to get a message safely home to Cybertron.

"I don't know," he replied honestly. Tailgate relayed the situation to the t-mech femme, explaining the mission he had been a part of, Sixshot's escape from the ship, the hostage situation, and how present status as a castaway. Wildfire was visibly moved, disturbed by the potential chaos the Phase Sixer could cause on Earth, and impressed by Tailgate's repeated displays of courage.

The female tapped her chin thoughtfully as she spoke. "You might as well make the best of it, then. I'll answer any questions you have and try to get you set up with some quarters until we can find where your friends are." She patted his shoulder consolingly. "I  _will_  see to it you get back to them. Promise."

Wildfire's kindness was a welcome relief for Tailgate. It was nice to have run into a friendly face on this planet, instead of getting tossed into the middle of another battlefield with people who barely recognized his existence, let alone care. Cyclonus was the only one he could call a friend, and even then, sometimes he felt like Cyclonus tolerated him more out of pity than anything else.

His thoughts turned towards the little cricket robot and police robot they'd rescued up above. "Say, what's this 'emergence center' you mentioned earlier?" Might as well get some questions answered while he was at it, he had no lack of time for learning. "And what's this about 'children'? How do robots even  _have_   children?"

The t-mech laughed and began walking along the causeway towards the city's main street. "Walk with me, and I'll try to explain."

Tailgate trotted forward to catch up with the taller bot, whose legs were longer, thus giving her a faster stride. "Okay - Wildfire, was it?" he asked, trying to make certain he had the name right.

"Yes," she said. "I don't believe I caught yours?"

"Tailgate. Like what I'm doing right now," he said as he fell behind her, the irony not lost on him.

Wildfire grinned behind her faceplate and slowed her steps to keep her smaller companion from relying on a brisk jog to keep in step. "Okay Tailgate, I'll try to explain a little bit about who and what we are."

"Oh good, because I've missed out on a lot I'm afraid. Not just here, I mean. On Cybertron, too. I sort of fell in a hole and passed out for six million years," Tailgate quipped.

Wildfire staggered a step. Six million years. She couldn't comprehend such a long existence, barely older than a decade herself, and she was the "grownup" as far as everyone in the city was concerned. "I don't know if I can help you much with your own world's history," she said, trying to mentally right herself, "but I can at least give you the Cliff's Notes of how Cybertronians affected earth."

"The what?" Tailgate asked, puzzled.

Wildfire shook her head. "Sorry, human expression. I'll try to avoid using them, you won't get the references."

"I don't even get some of the current Cybertronian ones," Tailgate murmured sheepishly.

Wildfire grinned again, stepping onto a sidewalk as the street broadened into a wide cul-de-sac used as a stopping and transforming point to get to other areas on foot. The number of Breakers passing by were increasing, paying both Wildfire and Tailgate no mind as they went on about their respective business, some going back down the paths the two had just come from, others transforming and driving off into the distance along the road.

"About two decades or so ago, Cybertronians came to Earth quietly, Autobots first, then Decepticons chasing them. Your armies were locked in the end of a massive war, and it was being continued on this planet as covertly as possible. Eventually the Decepticon leader, Megatron, broke that cover by creating a base of operations on Earth and sending one of his best warriors to begin attacking human armies in the open. There was a three year fight that hit its climax when the Decepticons captured one of Earth's biggest cities, New York, and subjugated the population for a whole year."

"Eventually humanity struck back in the only way they knew how: they used nuclear bombs and destroyed New York. The fighting between Autobots and Decepticons ended after. We're not really sure why, but rumor says that Megatron was killed, and leaderless, the Decepticons fled Earth, with the Autobots following after."

"Transmechanoids were created two years after that."

"It was decided by the united nations - that's the 'senate' of human national governments - that Earth had to be prepared for the possibility of Cybertronians coming back. They didn't trust Autobots  _or_   Decepticons. They gathered up everything you left behind and started taking it apart, examining it, retroengineering it. There were enough bodies, weapons and technologies left on Earth that they were able to create mock-ups of the Cybertronian body that they could pilot and use for all sorts of things, and they found a new fuel source to run them on - syntholine. Syntholine runs clean and is easily manufactured from minerals extracted from deep mining operations. It was probably the only  _positive_ thing the Autobot-Decepticon produced on this planet."

Tailgate hopped over the curb and up onto the sidewalk, listening to Wildfire as they began to walk past the fronts of various buildings. He took it all in, committing it to his memory banks. Quietly he wished he had the same kind of archivist equipment Rewind had carried. He was going to have one huge report to turn in on Ultra Magnus' desk once he got back.

 _If_   he got back.

"So transmechanoids were built by the local organic sentient species, 'humans'," Tailgate stated, reiterating the jist of the conversation so far. "But from what I saw, they didn't make you sentient. That seems to be something they're actively trying to prevent."

"Right," Wildfire agreed. "Sentience just seemed to be something that happened by accident for us."

"Well sentience kind of happens when you have a spark. I mean, it's automatic," Tailgate mused.

Wildfire seemed confused. "What's a spark?"

Now it was Tailgate's turn to stumble forward in incredulity. "What do you mean 'what's a spark'?" He gasped. "It's what gives you life, intellect, self-will! It's your  _soul!_ "

"But I don't have one of those," Wildfire countered, trying to grasp Tailgate's disbelief.

"If you don't know what it is, how do you know you don't have it?" the minibot countered.

It was a reasonable question. Wildfire stopped in her tracks. "Well, I suppose I don't for sure. I'm no medic or anything but I'm pretty sure I don't; Gauge noticed Yoketron has a 'quantum irregularity' in his void chamber, that's how we knew he wasn't one of us. He scanned the same kind of irregularity in you and Sixshot, which is how we knew you weren't really t-mechs."

"Wait, what's a 'void chamber'?" Tailgate asked. This was getting stranger by the minute.

"The empty space inside your torso," Wildfire said. "It's at the center of your relay matrix."

"... Could you show me?" Tailgate innocently questioned. He had to see this for himself - life, sentient life, without a spark! He wasn't even sure how this was possible. It was something Brainstorm or Perceptor would have a field day with trying to figure out, that much was certain.

Wildfire's optics flickered like a blink. "Well... sure, I guess." She knelt down, the car-hood plating of her torso parting in the middle, exposing internal mechanisms underneath.

There, in the center of her chest, where a spark  **should**  have been, was an empty spark chamber. The circuitry and energon lines that would normally be connected through an energy bridge to the glowing, pulsing source of Cybertronian life were present, but the spark itself was not.

"See?" she said. "That's the void chamber. The empty space acts like a buffer in the relay matrix to keep connections from bridging in the wrong places."

Tailgate was no medic but what she was saying made no sense. It was like saying an empty cranial chamber increased processing power and intelligence. "You've got a spark chamber," he informed her, "it's just empty."

Wildfire squinted her optics, trying to process the nonsense Tailgate was spewing. She made a stab at translation with a plausible theory. "So you're saying you have a  _void chamber_ , but it has something in it, and that something is a 'spark'."

Finally! Progress was being made. "Yes," Tailgate replied, opening his torso plating to give her a visual aid. "See?"

The transmech's optics widened fully at the sight of the spark. She'd never seen anything like it; it pulsed in and out, spinning in multi-helical spirals, prismatic light shifting colors and faintly, shape, nestled inside the Cybertronian's 'spark chamber'.

Her torso seemed painfully, embarrassingly hollow in comparison. Wild's torso plates snapped closed, and the finials on the sides of her helm lowered, as if she were ashamed.

Tailgate took notice. "Hey, no, don't be like that," he comforted. "So you don't have a spark. So what. It just makes you and all the others like you even more of a miracle of life."

"Heh, thanks," Wildfire demurely responded, cheered by the minibot's encouragement. "Here I am trying to explain things to you and it's just raising even more unanswered questions."

"Well, maybe I can help figure them out with you. It's the least I can do for you," Tailgate offered. "But go on. I want to hear the rest of this."

"All right." Wildfire stood up as Tailgate closed his torso plate; she resumed her leisurely pace towards whatever destination she had in mind for the minibot. "We don't understand how we first started having free will and a sentient mind, but the most widely accepted theory is that some of us were loaded with too many programs left running for too long. The humans made us as complex tools, and the more complex we became, the more they needed us to work autonomously, to start making our own decisions without supervision or repeated commands. It was just expedient to have us run on our own recognizance. I guess after awhile, all that independent action grew into independent minds."

"I'm guessing the humans didn't like that much," Tailgate said.

"Oh no. No, they didn't. Mostly, they were afraid of us. They'd become dependent on us helping them build and transport and mine and support their society, and there were so many of us that the idea of all of us becoming self-willed was a logistical nightmare, if not the potential outright doom of their kind. They'd already suffered under Decepticon tyranny, the last thing they wanted was their own home-grown giant robot menace," Wildfire said. "The official story was that some of us were 'broken' and needed to be reformatted and repaired - hence the name 'Breakers'. New laws were put in place to keep erasing and re-installing programs on us so that we didn't start acting 'broken'. Those of us that were already self-aware were rounded up and held not far from here in secret military facility. We were going to be experimented on, then taken apart and scrapped."

"That's horrible!" Tailgate interjected. "How could they do that to you? Didn't they realize that you were living, sentient beings?!"

"They probably did, but they didn't care. They were thinking about preserving their species first," Wildfire calmly explained. "It's not their fault. They didn't know what else to do, and they were all still hurting from being ruled by Decepticons. Millions of them died only a few years before. They were afraid of it happening again."

The Transmech's complete lack of hostility towards a race that had treated her kind cruelly was not lost on Tailgate. No Decepticon would have tolerated such a situation. Few Autobots would have had the forbearance not to hold a grudge as well. "So then how did you guys get down here?"

"Master Yoketron," Wildfire answered with a grateful, almost reverent tone. "We don't know how he found us, but he snuck into the military base and helped us escape, helped us hide. With his assistance we found our way here, began to make a life for ourselves, and he taught us how to rescue others that were awakening as well. We owe him everything."

Yoketron's presence on a blacklisted world piqued Tailgate's hunger for information further, but he felt it best to inquire of the old mech personally. He had more pieces to this puzzle, but he still lacked the box top image that would help him put it together.

Wildfire suddenly stopped. "We're here," she announced, gesturing with one hand to the entrance way to an unassuming tower with windows made of reflective blue glass. "This is the emergence center. You wanted to know how we have children? Come in side and you'll find out."

" . . . Am I going to be seeing things that will cause me to need extensive therapy later?" Tailgate meekly asked.

"I hope not," Wildfire blinked, hands on her hips, looking up at the building. "I don't think we have a therapist around here yet."

. . .

"Taking the Autobot on a tour of the city, eh? Not a bad idea, really. I'd much rather have him around than that oversized Decepticon menace."

Gauge looked over the datapad in his hands (which struck Tailgate as being a very Ratchet-like thing to do), ticking off a few items on a checklist with a stylus, before crossing the medical bay to his desk. White walls and gray paneled floors gave the place a very sterile, clean look; it was lit with warm-white light from above. Tables the size of an average Transmech (or Cybertronian) were grouped equidistant along the wall opposite the entrance door, with diagnostic stands and crash carts full of clean tools positioned between each. The right wall was one enormous window offering a view down into a surgical theater below.

Wildfire and Tailgate watched Gauge fuss over reports, tools and a computer terminal, the white, red-accented bucket-truck searching for something amid the mess. While Gauge liked order, predictability and routine, he still had not managed to conquer the clutter of his personal workspace. There was simply too much coming in and going out to take the time out to organize it.

"His name is Tailgate," Wildfire informed, introducing the minibot half her size properly. "He's curious about us, particularly that we have children, so I took him here to show him how it's done."

"Well, I can just push things off my desk for you if you're in a hurry," Gauge cheekily teased, leaning against it on one elbow with a waggle of his eyebrows.

Tailgate covered his eyes. "Veeery funny Gauge," Wildfire smirked, pulling one of the minibot's hands away from his face.

Gauge laughed. "Allow me to have a  _little_ fun with our guest, it's not every day I can pull off that joke," the mech said, crossing the room towards them.

"I'll forgive you this time," Wild noted. "Now, how's our lucky cricket? Has anyone volunteered to sire her yet? We could always watch that; nothing better than a first-hand education."

Gauge's mood sank a little and his smile faded to concern. "I don't know if anyone will actually be  _able_  to sire her. She's repaired and refueled but she's not responding to anything or anyone." His voice lowered, trying to speak quietly to his fellow t-mech. "Her processor seems to be shutting down on its own. We may lose her by the end of the day."

Tailgate heard every word. "What's wrong with her?" he asked, worried. "Is she sick?" He was all too familiar with terminal diseases.

"No," Wildfire answered. "Do you remember the theory I told you about how we became self-aware? Well, sometimes those programming errors don't give intelligence. They give cascade failures that result in a permanent, fatal crash of the neural net."

"Isn't there someone would could get into her programming and fix it?" Tailgate asked with an edge of desperation in his voice.

"I'm afraid not," Gauge stated. "The only way we can do that is if someone were to interface their processor to hers, and that would risk spreading the bad code. Then you'd lose two lives instead of one. We haven't had millions of years to perfect medical treatments for these sort of things; our species has only existed for around a  _decade_ , Tailgate. We don't even have a perfect understanding of our own rise to sentience, let alone how to fix something as delicate and individualized as our mental code."

Tailgate frowned, hands tightened into fists. There had to be some way to save that cricket. There just  _had_  to.

Wildfire knelt beside Tailgate. "This is her struggle," she tenderly explained. "All of us must go through it. If we aren't strong enough to want to live, we don't. She has to break out of her own shell."

She remembered that the Cybertronian probably didn't understand the analogy as he looked at her with an expression of puzzlement. "There is a species of life on this planet called a chicken. Its young are nurtured in eggs - hard mineral shells around the developing offspring. When the chicken is fully formed and ready to be hatched, it has to struggle to break free of the shell on its own. Sometimes the chick isn't able to break free, and it dies. You cannot help the chick hatch; if you do, it will die afterwards. It's the struggle to get out that strengthens the chick enough to live."

"We used to have more time to develop, to mentally grow into sentience before we were discovered. Now, thanks to Quality Control and the erasure laws, we only have enough time to begin to refuse orders. Almost every newcomer we rescue now are mentally like helpless infants, and it's difficult to tell which ones are beginning to awaken, and which ones are just experiencing errors."

Tailgate's hands unclenched and his posture relaxed. His spark sank. " . . . Can I at least see her then?"

"Of course," Gauge said. "Who knows. Maybe things will turn around in the end."

. . .

The situation was not promising. The small black and iridescent aqua insect-bot sat motionless on the repair table of Ward Three: lighted panels, optics and power lines were glowing with energy and her body was in pristine shape once again, but there was no sign of processor activity. She was effectively an attractive paper weight.

Cables hooked into input jacks on the cricket's thorax were connected to diagnostics displays, but the monitors were quiet, showing only a slow, even wave on the screen that denoted power and system functionality. Mental activity was dangerously low.

Tailgate rested against the berth, arms folded atop its end, chin resting on his hands as he gazed into the optics of the insect. "C'mon," he whispered to her. "You gotta make it. I didn't give up either. Don't you give up now."

Across the room, Wildfire shook her head gently at the minibot, and returned to the conversation she was having out of his earshot with Gauge. "Not exactly what I'd hoped to show him," she sighed. A frown drew across her brow. "Gauge, is it just me, or does that Autobot seem more like a kid than an adult?"

"I can't say I disagree with your assessment," Gauge replied, glancing over at Tailgate, who was tapping one finger to the tip of one of the cricket's antennae. "I thought Cybertronians came online fully adult, but that one is giving me second opinions."

"I suppose we can always ask Master Yoketron about it later," Wild said. She added, "He said he'd blacked out and went into stasis for  _six million years_. Missed the entire civil war of his planet."

Gauge's engine hitched audibly. " _Six million years?"_   he spat. "That has to be the oldest child I have  _ever_   heard of."

"- But still a kid," Wild interjected without missing a beat. "Imagine how out of place he must feel. He's alone with a race he knows nothing about, and he's missed out on everything that happened to his world and his kind - and now, on top of it, he's been separated from friends." She folded her arms, glancing over her shoulder at him again. " . . . I feel sorry for him."

"Or," Gauge posited, "maybe his situation just reminds you of your own. I can practically  _hear_  that biological clock of yours ticking away."

Now it was Wildfire's turn to choke. "We don't even  _have_  biological clocks!" she protested, wide-eyed in disbelief at her associate's claim.  _  
_

"No, but we _do_  have a need for companionship and a sense of belonging," Gauge pointed out. "You're the oldest of us here and you haven't passed your code on to  _anyone_. Rearing a child isn't exactly a permanent commitment, Wild. It's like you're terrified to have anyone relying on you for more than leadership during a rescue or raid -"

"La la la, can't hear you~," the red femme sang loudly, turning away from the medic, hands over her audioceptors.

Gauge smirked. "Well, if you're going to act like  _that_ , maybe it's a good thing you  _haven't_   sired anyone."

 **BEEEEEP. BEEEEEEP. BEEEEEP.**  The diagnostics panel near the cricket erupted in alarms. Her processor was beginning to flatline.

"No, no, NO!" Tailgate shouted in denial. "Doctor! Medic! Someone do something!"

Gauge rushed over to the table and the readout. His expression fell. "I'm sorry, Tailgate, but there's nothing we  **can**  do -"

The wheels in Tailgate's head flew. "Do you have any jumper cables?!" he demanded.

Gauge blinked. "Well, yes but -"

"Get them!" Tailgate shouted. "Get them  **please**!  _Hurry!"_

The medic ran across the room, supply cabinet doors flung open to look for the tools. Tailgate strained, standing on tip-toe, pushing the cricket over onto her side, trying to find the access panel to the "void chamber" Wildfire had shown him before on herself.  _Okay Tailgate_ , he thought.  _You're no medic, but you've seen this done before. On video anyways. If Cyclonus could do it for you, there's gotta be a way you can do it for her. Maybe what's wrong is that the empty space in their body isn't supposed to be empty at all._

Gauge ran over to the table, cables in hand. His optics widened. "What in the world are you doing?" he questioned in shock as the minibot forced apart the panels over the cricket's empty spark chamber, while his own panel slid back to expose the glowing core of his spark.

Tailgate grabbed the cables, clamping one end to the edges of his spark chamber. He choked back pain - these certainly weren't Cybertronian medical grade, but they'd have to do. "I think I know what's wrong!" he cried. "And if I'm right, it changes everything!"

By now Wildfire had rushed over as well, watching what was going on, hovering near the scene. By all rights she could stop this, let nature take its course as it always did, but something deep down inside stayed her hand. She wanted to see if his hunch was right. After seeing the Cybertronian's spark, her own hollowness had seemed more wrong than right.

"Oh I sure hope this works!" Tailgate clamped the other end of the cables to the rim of the cricket's void chamber.

 **Pain**.

Pain roared through Tailgate's senses, blocking out sight and sound with an overwhelming, blinding white noise. He felt disconnected from reality, as if he were floating away from his body. For a moment he wasn't sure if he'd just killed himself, extinguishing his spark, his data flowing back into the ethereal Well from which is had sprang. His thoughts turned to Cyclonus. He wished the sullen, stoic purple mech were here. He wanted, if this were his last moments alive, to finally be brave enough to tell Cyclonus how much the other mech had meant to him.

Shouting echoed in the distance to him, dulled and partially muted. His disorientation began to ebb away, and his vision began to clear. He was staring up at the ceiling, with three faces hovering over him in red, white and black.

"... gate!" It was Wildfire. "... you okay?" her voice was getting louder and clearer.

The minibot blinked, trying to force his optics to reset, groaning to himself (so he thought), rubbing his face. His hand bumped into the jumper cable still connected to his open internals and he winced in pain. Nope, he was very much still alive. Pain was always a good indicator.

"Oh thank the higher powers, he's alive!" Gauge gasped, relieved.

"You scared the exhaust out of us!" Wildfire chided as she carefully unclamped the jumper cables from the white minibot. "How am I supposed to keep my word about getting you back home if you go and kill yourself?"

"s-sorry," Tailgate complained, squinting. "I just thought that maybe I might be able to . . . "

It was the third face that captured and held Tailgate prisoner; to his left was someone both familiar and new.

The transformed cricket transmechanoid was smiling widely at him, her face a soft, bright silver, helmet smooth and black, her aqua optics as large and expressive as his own. Inside her still open torso, a spark - small, only a fraction of the size of his own - pulsed brightly inside the formerly empty void chamber.

Tailgate stared at it. "I don't know what inspired your idea," Gauge explained, giddy as any scientist over a new and exciting discovery, "but it  _worked._  Somehow you transferred a piece of that quantum anomaly inside of you, and it jump-started her systems. She woke up the moment you passed out."

"... transferred?" the minibot squeaked.

"Congratulations, Tailgate!" the medic beamed. "You're a  **father**."


End file.
